still, I suppose

I came across the name of a former acquaintance today and it occurred to me with some surprise that in all these years I had forgotten about him, he had continued to exist.  He's continued to live out the same hours and days as I have, in some removed unknowable place in the world.  He has had heart swells and truly terrible days and humdrum commutes and mornings without alarms and delicious meals and hurried meals and heartache and loss and sour stomachs and good laughs.  He's aged.  He's forgotten people of his own.  This is a mere acquaintance, I'm talking, whose regular presence and then absence from my life was hardly registered.   And yet he remains out there, continuing.

"That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."

ok.

But to what end?  Who even notices or cares?  Who is this play for and how is my small and ordinary life in any way a contribution toward something?  Though I do suspect that there's something honest just below the surface of this daily surviving, existence as a whole seems remarkably unimportant.  An unimportant miracle, you might say, given that our emotional spikes and delusions of grandeur demand some pizzazz.

But truly, we are here until we are not.  Even though our little lives do in fact impact everything, the grand total matters very little- not in the end and not even now, really.

Still, I suppose I am glad I am here.

finity

I could write about how perfect the air is here.  How I live on a mountain near the cloud line with a view next to god looking over the city.  How the waterway was lined with cars today full of seniors dressed to the nines, windows rolled down just taking in the day and the scene before them.  Cute dogs nearly outnumbered the people and not a turd to be seen.

but instead I'd like to write about how I had to borrow a pen from a person at a cafe today because, despite time and freedom, I somehow forgot one of my own.  In a hurry to return it, I came around a turn quickly and bumped a man's elbow, causing him to splash two hot, full cups of coffee all over the floor and the woman he was with.  In that instant the whole world knew what a clumsy, useless human being I am.  How, despite my efforts to organize, I am a chaotic force.  Hardly adult at all.  Apologizing profusely as the world continued to turn, I wondered if I could ever return to this perfectly located cafe again.

a quick spiral toward something inarticulate- wondering if I've already peaked- if there's anything ahead for me- fear of old age- changing shapes- I used to be able to focus for so long- what am I capable of that I'm not tapping into- is this laziness or rest- what matters really

Once I had regained perspective, I was shocked to recognize how violently inner workings can swing from hope to despair.  I suppose I've lived on that swing for most of my life, but for a little moment today, and lately, I was able to just sit near it and observe the changes.

I don't know where I am but I do know that it's happening too fast.

Not anchored nor floating.  Feeling like I'm getting away with something, but detached from a sense of reward.  Walking quickly and checking the talk, though no one is following me and I have nowhere to be.

Perhaps not the best time to begin Infinite Jest, but I do hear it calling.