The Dove & The Raven Both Fly

Just off the phone with him. He's a Seaman. Eddy the Seaman. It made me laugh. It actually made my night. I'm down and I'm done. Stick a fork in it. Maybe it tickles; maybe it bleeds. I got a full night's sleep but still woke up not wanting to leave my bed. Not a good sign. Mad. Mad. MAD... that I have no control over this craziness inside of me. When I'm at work I sit there and stare off into the computer screen, out the window, at the papers in front of me. I start to fall asleep. I feel heavy and sad. I get up and walk around, get a cup of water just to have my body moving and blood flowing. There is no challenge there and though my work product is superb it is not from the effort that I'm expending, rather the ease of the position itself.

So talking to Eddy felt good. It was interesting to hear his excitement. I could sense in him a desire for wanting to better himself and I've always known that was there inside of him. I suppose this is why I never let go completely. I couldn't. It is hard to know when to do that sometimes. The bonds that are made with people do not always last, in fact, they are prone to dissolving, but the knowledge of our half lives is shrouded in the mist of our evaporating efforts. I think of Chuck and Eddy and these bonds and chemistry becomes ever more clear to me.

Vivaldi - Winter...I listened to all three movements while typing the above. I've switched to Beethoven's 7th Symphony, 2nd movement. The piece has always captivated me since the first time I attempted to play it on the piano when I was 12 or 13. (Perhaps 11) I had never heard it played before playing it myself. Upon hearing it, I realized how inadequate my musings were and that I would never spend so much time to perfect playing the piano. The piano, like many other things I have dabbled in, was fun for a while but I had no interest to learn it in depth. It's enough for me to know that I can sit down at a piano and hit keys and make melodies and if I really wanted to, I could read the music and have a mediocre sound come out of it. This seems to be the way of most things that I have an interest in. People being the sole exception perhaps.

Three minutes of this movement left and my writing feels stale. It's not that it is. It is the feeling inside. It's that dead part. It's a part of me that has been there for 13 years and counting. The more time passes, the more roads I see; more streams of energy that have crossed. Explosions. Sanctuary. Touches and tastes as well as guard towers and a porticullis. Knave, saint, sinner, child. I have not the desire to grow up, but push to live perniciously.