Once again I arise to the dissipation of moonlight, and the frightful feeling that I have lost my way. Another day, another insufferable lapse. Perhaps today will be different. Perhaps not. What shall we say of this passage of time, imperceptible and continuous but made incremental by our own construct? This tide, unyielding, inscrutable. A force beyond any knowing. Inertia and kinetics.
Morning will arrive and I will be in that crowded metro replete with assholes, invalids, and bums, reeking of urine, sweat, and enterprise, coffee mug in hand, sleep still in my eyes, traversing tunnels to round out the day, square and meaningless as the one before, be it in uptown, downtown or central, as Wall Street broker, investment banker, and art director. And out to the menacing traffic, the chorus of irreverent honking, the callousness of cabbies. On the sidewalk, an insolent child and his mother, disembodied of any motherhood, and the bigoted bystander who watches in disbelief. And into the offices of power-hungry politicians, bullying businessmen and the conceit of corporations.
This is how we have found our citadel. Nostalgia, regret, both, we have murdered. This, like a sharpened secret held for too long plunges me back into my void. The collective of these occurrences descends upon me like a sorrowful song. What can I do but weep in silence? So I am reduced to a pettiness for which I am ashamed.
Spring and Summer passed, passing. A life lived, living. Nearly four decades of movement and stillness, alternating and confounded. No, winter will not warm us this time. Probably. And I have only tried to hold on to the twilight breeze. I have seen death; its smile seductive like a woman. I have tried to wed. To return to this sweet oblivion from a life left of desire. I have lost my faith; my will has been broken.
How is it possible? People gather, and with the such innocence, proceed to annihilate one another. Thinking I had loved once; realizing now I had not loved well. And if it be that I had been shown beauty, I know nothing of it now. Is this really the world we have created? Can I affect any of this or am I simply an insignificant appendage in the midst of this force immutable. My cynicism and fatigue like a virus in my blood coursing its finite path. I think to myself, this is who we are. These are the things of which we are capable.
No. I shall not lay down. It is not me. Life is waiting. Time now to start anew. Again, and for always. Open now for the possibility; for all is possible, and only some things probable.
This, I believe.
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