I'm currently deploying all of the known tricks of man to ward off this ennui that is bearing down on me like a locomotive. I know when I start wishing that the weather was colder that things have gone astray. I wander outside near sunset and try to identify the various colors and shapes of clouds. The clouds are puffs of smoke. The clouds are cartoon ghosts. The clouds are black cloth covering the bright blue body of the horizon. The clouds are a certain distance away from me that is actually identifiable, and it's almost impossible to imagine how much closer they are to me than the stars. The clouds are suffused with orange light. Planes drop through the clouds like water arrived down a drain into the vast underworld. None of them are entirely correct. Le mot juste escapes me, dear Flaubert.
I go through these periods as a plane passes through clouds. No, no, forget the clouds. I imagine that things should be different than they are. The thought itself is nebulous, it lacks any real substance like the ghosts of clouds that hover on the fading horizon of orange and blue. The clouds are the color of spent coal. A school of orange fish are swimming through the clouds. Is it so hard to imagine that the whole world exists as a figment in my imagination? Yes, I suppose so. Is it so hard to imagine it as God's?
I find myself unable to stay in one place. I wander around looking for something. I do not know what the something is, but I know that if I find it nothing will change. But the illusion of change keeps me wandering around on it's nonexistent trail. I wander in my mind in search of things. Time does not heal all wounds. Time makes a fool of us all.
5,000 monkeys slamming on the keys would eventually come up with Shakespeare, but it would take them a hell of a long time. I'd rather just get it from William along with the bed. The idea for the movie "Midnight in Paris" is sound. The illusory dream that one's life was meant to be lived elsewhere. That somehow meaning would be able to be crafted in a different place. Perhaps, perhaps not. The life span and drudgery of past centuries would perhaps leave those unhappy spirits in a better state, and if not that, dead, which tends to put things to rest.
I keep trying to come up with ways of forgetting. Okay, I was briefly distracted from the world by joining twitter and reading a quote by Elizabeth Warren. I would vote for Elizabeth Warren if she ran for the presidency. Anyhow, in the heady and intoxicating land of joining twitter and fretting over candidates I've overcome my desire to define clouds.
It was at that time in my life that I was given over to the sort of nostalgia that cripples a man, turns him into a piece of gd jelly. I was young and stupid. Those old two handmaidens that are inextricably linked. I loved a girl, and she didn't love me. At that point in time I thought that the difference was important. And so I'd walk the streets at night in hopes of running into her. I had no idea where she lived, just a sort of approximation of the neighborhood. I often mistook old women carrying umbrellas for her. It is the sort of mistake that a mind unhinged by love makes.
Sometimes I'd stop in at a corner bar and pretend to watch the television while unrepentant drunks smoked and talked about women at the bar. The bar was dark and smelled like all bars everywhere. Like old cigarette ash, spilled drinks, and failure. None of the regulars ever took notice of me. I suppose this is a longish way of telling you how I got the cat that is currently sitting in your lap, but I figured you and I had time. Not the sort of time that that gd younger version of myself did, squandering his hours in a corner bar, in aquarium light, looking for a woman to love.
Do you want tea? I can't drink the good stuff anymore, too many good things happen that turn out later to have been bad. Nah. She never came in, and after a few months I forget what she looked like. I came across her in the super market months later, she was wearing a beret, and she had an earring in her nose, really had gone to hell. I wanted to go back and kick that earlier version of myself in the face for spending all those hours on lonely streets, but then again, I wouldn't have found this boon companion if I hadn't loved that woman, so I walked up to her and shook her hand and thanked her for the cat. Nah. She didn't even remember my name.
I go through these periods as a plane passes through clouds. No, no, forget the clouds. I imagine that things should be different than they are. The thought itself is nebulous, it lacks any real substance like the ghosts of clouds that hover on the fading horizon of orange and blue. The clouds are the color of spent coal. A school of orange fish are swimming through the clouds. Is it so hard to imagine that the whole world exists as a figment in my imagination? Yes, I suppose so. Is it so hard to imagine it as God's?
I find myself unable to stay in one place. I wander around looking for something. I do not know what the something is, but I know that if I find it nothing will change. But the illusion of change keeps me wandering around on it's nonexistent trail. I wander in my mind in search of things. Time does not heal all wounds. Time makes a fool of us all.
5,000 monkeys slamming on the keys would eventually come up with Shakespeare, but it would take them a hell of a long time. I'd rather just get it from William along with the bed. The idea for the movie "Midnight in Paris" is sound. The illusory dream that one's life was meant to be lived elsewhere. That somehow meaning would be able to be crafted in a different place. Perhaps, perhaps not. The life span and drudgery of past centuries would perhaps leave those unhappy spirits in a better state, and if not that, dead, which tends to put things to rest.
I keep trying to come up with ways of forgetting. Okay, I was briefly distracted from the world by joining twitter and reading a quote by Elizabeth Warren. I would vote for Elizabeth Warren if she ran for the presidency. Anyhow, in the heady and intoxicating land of joining twitter and fretting over candidates I've overcome my desire to define clouds.
It was at that time in my life that I was given over to the sort of nostalgia that cripples a man, turns him into a piece of gd jelly. I was young and stupid. Those old two handmaidens that are inextricably linked. I loved a girl, and she didn't love me. At that point in time I thought that the difference was important. And so I'd walk the streets at night in hopes of running into her. I had no idea where she lived, just a sort of approximation of the neighborhood. I often mistook old women carrying umbrellas for her. It is the sort of mistake that a mind unhinged by love makes.
Sometimes I'd stop in at a corner bar and pretend to watch the television while unrepentant drunks smoked and talked about women at the bar. The bar was dark and smelled like all bars everywhere. Like old cigarette ash, spilled drinks, and failure. None of the regulars ever took notice of me. I suppose this is a longish way of telling you how I got the cat that is currently sitting in your lap, but I figured you and I had time. Not the sort of time that that gd younger version of myself did, squandering his hours in a corner bar, in aquarium light, looking for a woman to love.
Do you want tea? I can't drink the good stuff anymore, too many good things happen that turn out later to have been bad. Nah. She never came in, and after a few months I forget what she looked like. I came across her in the super market months later, she was wearing a beret, and she had an earring in her nose, really had gone to hell. I wanted to go back and kick that earlier version of myself in the face for spending all those hours on lonely streets, but then again, I wouldn't have found this boon companion if I hadn't loved that woman, so I walked up to her and shook her hand and thanked her for the cat. Nah. She didn't even remember my name.
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