I guess I had a pretty good day yesterday. Got my notice of an honorable mention in the final quarter of Writers of The Future for 2014, which is the first time I’d ever entered the contest. That also involved the only decent short story I’ve ever written. I’m pretty pleased with that.
But I woke up this morning and I felt hollow. Personal reasons aside, I missed my night meditation. Had some wacky in the not-fun-sort-of-way dreams. And I woke.
I guess I’m in my usual seasonal crisis. One crisis (Or more) per quarter. But the minimum is one crisis, it would seem, and I have found it. Yes, they usually involve writing. No I’m not going to tell you the particulars of what got me so down last night. It’s not important anyway.
People change. Things slip away and don’t come back.
There’s no real way to repair anything, only replace parts as needed.
Reshape the metal, thinner and thinner each time.
In snow. In fallen leaves. In blazing heat. In mud.
Time gets away from everyone.
Clinging to past thoughts, or feelings—For objects, or people—It’s all in vain.
Like the most interesting man in the world.
I don’t always…
I don’t always…
But when I do…
Can people ever really forgive each other?
Or do we just replace the generations one at a time?
One at a time.
Can misunderstandings keep hurting forever?
Until we all shuffle off a certain coil.
Finality is scary because until it happens to you, there’s no basis for it in life.
Machines wear out as surely as biology.
And you can’t repair them. Only replace them.
Replace. Replace. Replace.
Starve. Starve. Starve.
Damn, that’s a lot of periods up there.
But the journey isn’t over, and I may be wrong yet