It seems like these titles and these loosely written associations are just extra steps from a smaller wish to share bits about my day.
Not a day, but some thoughts. Or the thoughts to masquerade a day. The thoughts which make up a day that seemingly stand on their own. But it’s all precipitated.
I love some candidness though. How earnestly some write! Compared to mine… not that there’s a distaste, but there’s definitely some antsiness embedded. I’m not sure if I want to shake it off.
But I love those who write all their timid thoughts. Somedays I wish I could mimic it. I mean, I definitely could, but if I did then I would probably delete this.
Some would bemoan the fragmented feel of posting out here, but I like the distance. Because I think anything more would be too painful. Schopenhauer gives his warm regards.
Who’s there to listen anyway? Well, maybe a couple. But I don’t expect any answers, nor thoughts, nor moments! For although some would tout the exercise of elucidating whatever does weigh makes it lighter and reveals ways out, I’m not so confident in that.
The other day I pulled out a journal from awhile back. Quite a while back.
Handwritten in faded pencil. Scribbles for letters but I never suggested it’d be any other way.
I remember each entry as I glided along. The desk it was written at. The fumes clouding that day. The ways to blow off steam afterward.
It’s amusing how long you spend days in disconnects. Each entry made itself a broken cord hiding some Christmas lights, and maybe I’ll finally provide the fuse to show the whole house. Make it all lit up, let Santa see the essence.
It’d be a simple, a staple home. Maybe two bedrooms. Small frame. A fig tree out front with sprawling branches, no bushes for a treehead. Scraggly. A light blue coat for paint. Would there be a dog? You decide.
I’d want the lights to amp up as the evening drops. Make it a star in the neighborhood, but lately I would imagine it’d be a neighborhood of one.
The scorpion makes his nest on the outskirts, along the fence. Maybe knit him a Santa hat.
The first exhales of winter breath keep me waiting for the final one.
I’d want the delighted to tumble down some leafy red hills. Stand atop, perch there and see the summits of old.
Do you hear that? A legion marches, waiting to defend all their loves from the supposed enemy. Do you know how long they’ve been preparing? Will they make it back for Christmas too?
The steel shiver with each armor clanking along.
Maybe an ice rink is a proper battlefield. Slide from cover to cover. Let the trident fly, and the scorpion witness.
Do you know the glow of humming apartments, along the outskirts of the city? Each window a moon itself, hoisting a world living. I wonder if you’d want to know.
Walking along abandoned districts. A light pellet hail. All around you so certain upon their return. The giggle of a child as the father and mother swing open their 3 bedroom apartment. A hope revealed within portraits and A+ refrigerator assignments. They’ll need a new pair of galoshes. School buses can’t always park perfect, gutters waiting.
The back seat of a plane. The dimmed office. The backs of each passenger. Checking out luggage. Staring past all the blinking lights. Back again. Never to see again. Beachsides waiting. Beachsides written, waiting to write and pictures taken. Summerside heights and winter burials, flip through camera reels virtual.
All these extra steps.
All these extra steps just to spend this moment writing here.
Did you make the most of it?