“This flesh and bone, are just the way that we are tied in…” – Peter Gabriel
The family curse is strong — I can feel it in my blood. ‘All colors bleed to red.’ Single quotes again. No, sorry to report that, so far, it’s not going great. I mean — it sort of is, but it mostly isn’t. The smell of all that cut grass was nice.
Could every choice have been a mistake, if somehow they all led me to here? Or it is that I can only ever hope to connect the dots are far as I’ve come along the path, and since the road behind has never led up or out — often hardly even led through; just painful loops instead — since the road behind is pockmarked with slag and regret, I can’t imagine the future dots showing, retrospectively, someday, that this was a point on the way to somewhere better?
//”Drifting in empty seas, for all my days remaining” — ?
So, doc: Is this the delusions of grandeur part? Or, as I pause and consider it a moment longer than usual; close my eyes and remember that 4:19am is just one of many perspectives, to ask the question a different way: Am I [a strange loop?] — stop it — am I actually finding new insights? Is this actually any good to anyone? Am I ‘hauling on frozen ropes’ or digging up diamonds?
And really — I’m sorry for the out-of-sequence numbering gimmick, but once I realized you were using than as an index to my thoughts, I just had to bump them out of order. Why? Because you missed six, yo.
Oh, how dearly I wish I could go back to the start and purposefully miss six. How great would a numbered blog be that went 1 2 3 4 5 7? (Ah yeah, that’s totally what I meant. Really. Totally.)
//”Under the dark star sail…”
The door to writing was locked shut for so long that, now that I seem to have found my skeleton key, it’s hard not to believe that every flush of an idea must be recorded. That if there’s the small possibility of taking another little nugget from my veins, rounding it off, giving it just the barest polish and then yelling out, “Hey you guys! You won’t believe this, but I think I found another one over here!”, at the top of my lungs, as if my life depended on it. Maybe it does, maybe it does.
Looking at that through the other end of the telescope, what’s the point of self reflection if all it does is illuminate things only you can see? Are we really such isolated motes, circling no greater central fire? Is it more selfish to hold those nuggets up than to hoard them to myself, in fear that they’re only Fool’s Gold? No one likes to be a fool; except, of course, he who is designated to play that role.
Then I leap around in my patterned frock, the bells on my cap jingling merrily, trying to distract us all from the pain and the doom just around every corner.
“There was only one, I recall. It was all so different then.”