Hello friends, hope your day was everything you wanted.
Mine was nothing special. I’m not sure if I’m going to write something everyday or not. I did skip yesterday after all.
What type of music would you take around with you? A soundtrack for daily living.
It seems like an unfair question, because no moment is the same. Everything changes. So I guess you’d have to revisit this question each time your environment changed.
What was the last notable environment change for you? Maybe we process changes differently.
There’s a pretty road in the midst of Seattle – complete with the light green bike lane and colored trees. It was that street which registered that I really was elsewhere. The last register I remember, at least.
Most of time it’s hard to register such things. It’s a funny conundrum; how the mind contorts the image before you, but stay too still and the image contorts you, confines you in a way. I mean one could look at the same sunset with a million different hues, corny it may be. Yet one may instead see it the same shade each day.
Most would argue that twilight is the most melancholic section of the day. Maybe because all one can do is watch the Sun disappear and watch light gradually dissipate. All of the streaks at first seem to stand for something; some sort of testament toward living. But it’s more of a last dance. More of a farewell. Are we condemned to silo beauty into moments like that? Where you’ll lose it?
I mean, we lose everything eventually. Or maybe we never really had it. Property rights render themselves absurd after you attend a funeral. For the more noble amongst you, maybe you see yourself as your blood and so properties shall retain their meaning through generations. I wonder how your blood acted 200 years ago. Do you think both of us were friends, or distant cousins? Maybe.
That’s the underhanded melancholy of interacting with foreigners. You can be friends, but both of your tendrils fight for the dying sun. Whoever blooms shall block the rays remaining. I guess that’s why twilight is melancholic too: a precursor to death.
That’s the state of things, unless you somehow mix your blood. Big commitment. Lots of questions.
We can deflect such questions by instead contemplating what makes Plants so beautiful: no matter how much you eat them, they never die. Eating meat requires the host to be dead basically. When mammal cells are ripped out, they pulse a bit before rotting. While with leaves so remains a life-force. Depending on the plant, you can take a branch, plant that, and find more growth. It’s a shame blood won’t work in the same way.
Everything would be a lot easier if we all had a common ancestor, maybe. But it doesn’t seem like the Bible agrees to that premise. Even then I guess there’d be a lot of infighting. I’m unfortunately from Mars, apparently – a lineage of war and bloodshed. Do you think our friendship goes far back enough?
I guess this is all surrounding something I think about: why hasn’t this blood dried up? I mean, I guess it somewhat seems that way if you look at the macro picture we’re but droplets in. If you draw your lines of nations a bit more discriminately. Well, such lines aren’t needed even: wherever you look birth rates are cratering. All is going according to plan to those who are far more advanced. Do you think we’ll join their ranks sometime?
Maybe if we both learn to be a bit more cold. If we shed this central irony of preserving the delicate. This central irony probably contributes to why I’m alive, though. The feminine is filled with contradiction, isn’t it?
It’s okay, we’re immortal anyway. Especially if you want to transfuse some spiritual essence into things. We could all at least sense we’re from the same source when metaphysics enters the stage.
One time a college friend confessed to me about a boat sailing long ago. We’re the stranded ones. Some shabby corner college sort of living. Meanwhile others march within the consortium. March toward the economic forum.
I couldn’t really give any comforting reply in that moment. I’m not sure if I have a better reply now. But I do acknowledge that who you hang around is who you become.
If we visited that evening, and I could hijack my mind then, I’d probably say:
I never really met anyone worth admiration when there are angels about.