Quiet eludes me. Hammering away at some new shelves tonight I found myself unable to control the halestorm of strange, bewildering thoughts rummaging in my top floor. For a moment I thought I'd found a serene moment among physical chores, but it was not to be. I'm not complaining, but I'm growing tired of tracking down my concentration and nailing that fucker down for at least a microt. Sometimes I feel like I'm simply ill-equipped to handle emotions that haven't given enough clear indication that they're about to hit my screen.
This is all a sum of its parts, of course. Having lived in a somewhat stagnant world of knowing exactly what tomorrow will bring for so many years, these days each new dawn is a question mark. Being a single man with no day job and very little to tie me down is a lot to get used to (again) after such a long stint in the safe haven of security, not to mention resting upon the welcoming arms of self-imposed mediocrity.
As the more astute among you might have deducted from my previous entry, I'm a bit sweet on someone and it's playing hell with my already warped mind. Don't get me wrong, though: things are way, way up in the air and everything could dissolve before you can say "chemistry". I certainly wish it wouldn't, but you can never be too sure. I'm afraid I'll get burnt - as has been the norm in such situations in the past, albeit a distant past - and that friendships will be scolded beyond repair in the process, but I also want to see where this leads. I hate being vulnerable, but I also know that the safest option is always the least rewarding. Such notions have formed a strange balancing troupe in my head and the havoc that's ensued is quite a lot to take.
A buddy of mine and I had a heart-to-heart of sorts last night. Very little detail, very few words akin to true emotion and even less barebone honesty, but a fun little exchange of surprising twists and unforeseen turns behind the veil, straight from the horse's mouth. It was quite refreshing to talk about the elusive beast of relationships with someone taking notes from a very different kind of operating manual than yours truly.
Later, lying on my somewhat uncomfortable couch chasing sleep's slippery tail, I counted faces as some would sheep. How delightfully bizarre and surprising my world is; at least in terms of the people inhabiting it or making sporadic sojourns into my comfort zone. I mused on how small and thoroughly entagled all these circles of flesh and heartbeats are, their bounds drawn by desire, opportunity, chance and mere luck of the draw. I often marvel at how people find each other in the night. The protagonist in these stonewall lullabies bathed in smoke and streetlight is more often than not myself, yet I confess I'm none the wiser on what kind of turn the script will take on the next page.
A long time ago I had a dream about the nature of the social animal; of how everyone's lonesome struggle adrift upon the sea of time leads us into the arms of one another and how the ripples we generate with every single motion turn splashes into waves and waves into roaring tides. A bit of a naive notion, perhaps, but bear with me.
In the dream, I sat in a rickety rowboat under moonless skies in inky blackness. In spite of the darkness I could see the everclear stretching limitless around me, beyond sight and understanding. Endless. I heard voices nearby and afar, a veritable choir of human sounds, each familliar to me. I took to the paddles and began making my way towards a distant voice that filled me with warmth. She is there. Off I went.
As the surface of the sea began to writhe and breathe restlessly under my slowly drifting vessel, a myriad of colors and shapes escaped from all around me, filling my view. These are... mine? While I did not understand their nature, I knew these violent bursts of grandiose energy were my doing.
Each push, pull and turn I took generated a trail of light into another direction around me, and while I couldn't see their impact, I knew they would find their way to another lone soul. Perhaps a stream would disturb someone's enjoyable standstill, perhaps one would guide another towards an unforeseen tomorrow. Perhaps the ripple would turn into a tide and swallow someone. It wasn't up to me to guide the will of the sea, merely to make my own way upon it as best I could.
We row in solitude upon black seas of wild energy, driven by Ishmael's will and endlessly tempted by the sirens of desire. May your hand be guided by love and may you find, as I have, a bittersweet sense of serenity in knowing how wonderful this endless, terrifying journey in darkness can be. It won't dull the blade's edge when it pushes past your ribs, but there is something to be said about recognizing, understanding and perhaps even appreciating those force(s) that push you towards those warm voices we chase in the night.
