Scraps of former beauty that I once thought it would be my assured mandate to enjoy forever. But nothing it seems lasts forever. No sadness or tragedy in it. Just plain fact! Be careful of what you put your complete reliance on. Change it up once in a while. Because no one can tell you to stay positive when you no longer need feel it. That only comes from somewhere deep within like an unexpected mountain stream. There is something about the vindication of past history to sell the notion of anything artfully crafted. It takes an awful lot of energy to stay angry or frustrated. Disappointment being a burden that one must eventually put down to get anywhere. The intervention of lightning as an epic threat of divine connection. The roar of affirmation of cheers from a growing crowd. Excitement bringing electricity accompanied by the sound of ensembles of French horns. Their association with concepts of nobility undeniable and forever motivating. The collective emotions welling up like a flood to choke one to tears.
It’s a rare feeling when one realizes that there is no longer a home you once knew left standing that attaches to those former recollections of what was once a series of memories of times now vanished. Those once experienced with the phantoms that you loved. The persons whose traits that you still unconsciously embody. You are their lasting moments in times preserved that will be alive as long as you will be. The respect due their memory compelling you to respect yourself in honor of all that they meant to you. Brick by brick torn out with truncated metal railings irrevocably scattered and interred somewhere out of sight in a place that one will those will never know. The pain experienced inside as acute as if it were from my own limbs being torn asunder. A transition of what was once undeniably truly mundane fact slipping away into a slowly fading dream of deeply flawed recollection.
Writing might be the last game left in the American Dream? Whatever that was, whatever that might have become. People living with big gaps in their existence where life had once sprung up but now was interminably barren. One’s life following a pattern that you couldn’t avoid even though in times leading up to that point you found yourself well-advised. Yet still and too easy a mostly bemused victim. It was this pattern that you tried to unravel because that was about the only way you a last ditch attempt at understanding the complexities of your own unalterable foolishness. The most clarity that could be mustered being couched in the everyday habits repetitively explained in the same way that they were each day. But then summarily discard by evening so that in waking the next morning one found these exact same explanations posed word for word anew.
Yet what if you were successful in recovering some lost event from times long ago asleep in the density of one’s own sense of the presence? What did one have then that they could hope tolerate in a more immediate familiar to dare to believe that they could still provide it with enough importance to keep it eternally alive. Perhaps one’s latest dreams are more akin to the authenticity of their own daily hidden drama? Those ones that one find’s one being cast as someone fallen or relentlessly dragged down into unrepentant evil without explanation. Where someone descends back into everyday existence after waking driving one’s self nuts trying to unravel the series of events that provide even less answers than the recounting on nearly forgotten episodes that had some degree of actuality. Yet going through some of these self-imposed diatribes one finds one’s self coming to a conclusion out of simple exhaustion that it might be better to leave well enough alone.
After all what could one learn about their past that might have any relevance the type of character that one has and will become? Had not years of ego blunting experience interceded and taught hard lessons as to where one could and could not tread down the paths of life. The notion that this can all be rationally assembled and reformed into an accurate biography understood fully by others being as absurd as thinking that the natural human penchant for irrationality can be conclusively assessed or meaningfully rationalized. The formula imposed by popular media holding sway over what is perceived and what part of that is ultimately discarded. What did emotions ever have to do with the rational anyway? Ask a woman, or better than that, watch her behavior over the long haul. Like storm clouds one moment then storm clouds again in the next. But always occasionally sunshine. Too many answers but not enough valid questions!