Write Anyway

I could sit here and begin recounting themes and dreams of my youth. A sharp striking smile that beguiles me, that as some kind of spiritual counterweight tugs mightily against the unbecoming voices and spirits that rest among me, have become me, counter what I want to become. 

You tease the small habits of joy that I carry. I sing in a low tone to myself to pass the time, you join in. My singing stops shortly after I discover two voices are carrying on. A smile breaks from my face, breaks through the momentary presence of embarrassment. A smile composed of one part awkward discovery, and two parts sweet gawking, I lose the need to sing to break the monotony. Under my breath, I mutter some frustration and as the hot coals of something gone wrong or something a bit astray settle on me, you mirror in mocking tone. And I forget what momentarily stubbed my soul and I’m beside myself, outside of myself laughing at my absurdity. Removed twice from strained wadings, I sheepishly meet your eyes and continue my day’s trajectory a bit more buoyant. 

I write these things down for they shortly mattered. I write these things down because these moments of pittance, you engaging with me, will quickly be drowned out by our debt to time. A debt to make larger of ourselves, to make haste, to make business, to make busy of ourselves. I write these things down anyway because my sight has aged and simple beauties strike me less. These moments pay homage to a place and time faint, but still of my mind. 

Time races forth. Splintering spirit, splintering process, as tomorrow’s trial is already upon us and I’m still mentally in last year.  

I was behind on health so made the appointments and started keeping a calendar. I was behind on rest so I made some adjustments. As the dividends of quality sleep kicked in and I had a fresher face to start the day, I missed one of my appointments. At least I will be on time to work, for they have a habit of running long. I will call them back and add this to next month’s agenda. 

By this point in time, I would’ve assumed a better grasp of my own rhythm and being able to fall in lockstep with my needs and wants and the ability to meet them while sporting the mix of well suited masks of various and changing social and familial spheres. I play this game, the infinite rehearsal of Man, the constant juggling, jarring, habit setting situation willfully and getting ahead of myself speaks to the thread of vanity only we know. 

I write these things anyway because they brought joy to my running over of tired lines and static spaces, in repeated scenes. I write these things anyway not because they mean much of anything, but because it makes me feel dumb in a serious way in that there is good value in that.

At least out of today in pulling different strings I am full of energy and on time to where I’m needed. 

Today, I write anyway.

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