Have not been writing much, and, as a result, my syntax feels foreign, my words off.
So, I’ll write this as one does a letter to an old friend.
For what more could one wish
The above was published inadvertently – a draft from last night left open in the wordpress app. And, having opened wordpress tonight to perhaps write, it was published when I tried to save it without reverting its status to a draft.
Nonetheless, I won’t psychoanalze it.
For what more could one wish for than to write and be as truthful as one could in a letter to an old friend – provided I had a friend as old or as dear to me as the pen.
This is what I do. I write.
I sit on my balcony listening to Explosions in The Sky YHIM, and I watch as my girlfriend sleeps on the couch with our dog Sophie in her arms. To be at home and to feel safe. No other luxury compares.
And yes, I ate too much.
But of the luxury I behold now, I am grateful.
It was not but two hours past we took the dogs for a walk and encountered a lurker across the street, somone clearly on drugs, sizing us up and apparently determining whether to rob us or perhaps even worse.
Not really a story worth telling, but after I had walked us to the brightest corner and postured as assertively as I could, we returned home where we both sighed deeply in mutual relief.
Reminded of the time I was sitting with a girlfriend near her dorm and three coyotes approached us in pitch dark. I too postured then, but unlike then I did not bask in the glory of overcoming a potential, albeit mild, form of predation. No, tonight I came in and held Sarah a bit dearer in my eyes. And I was glad we were safe.
And yes, the temporary preservation of mortality aside, I have not been writing much. But books suffice where my own words cannot, sending the same water rushing through my veins; for to read Steinbeck or Victor Hugo is to read a letter from an old friend.
I stave off death and loneliness best I can, well aware the latter is comparatively under my own accord.
But I am now good with loneliness – it’s death that haunts. That unshakable feeling that it was all temporary. But I hope it meant something. It did to me.
Still making my way back to the home I never had. Glad I have someone to enjoy this heaven with. Just hard to feel all else was some sort of way station. But it’s easy to feel forgotten in time. Not always easy to forget though, is it.
So, I write. To kindle the warm fire that for now staves off the cold dark, to stem the tide of time. To say that I HAPPENED. And no, I did not forget. Life just goes on, though, doesn’t it.
This all feels very melancholy, and perhaps it is; I mean, it doesn’t go on forever. Thankfully, unlike published drafts, memories come already edited in time. And that’s okay with me. Just sad I can’t hold them so high anymore.
I guess the past just isn’t what it used to be, sport.
Now go on old boy, be here now.