The sun rises, and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it rises.
The wind blows to the south and goes around to the north; around and around goes the wind,
and on its circuits the wind returns. All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full;
to the place where the streams flow, there they flow again." Ecclesiastes 1:4-7
Yesterday, a child came out to wander...*
What if I just started writing? And my fingers did not cease. If I bent my wrists in an awkward position to hear the tap, tap, tap of my aging keyboard keys and the words appeared as fast as my thoughts flashed across my center lobe or the one responsible for processing this tireless stream of sharp emotions I sometimes fail to fathom.
And the painted ponies go up and down...*
But then I notice, when my brain responds to enough guilt or want to sit in front of the blank paper at an attempt to make sense of the madness, I sink into a deeper set of feelings, stronger than the nagging ones before. And my neuroses becomes aware of my pursed lips and tight jaw, my beating heart feels the pressure of the immeasurable angst leaning on it for reassurance. And me and my rather blessed life in my East Village Manhattan apartment starts to fear that that I'm not living large enough.
We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came...*
I recently went to a friend's Mom's deeply touching Memorial Service on the oh so, peaceful Upper West Side. A college friend recalled stories of her kindness, her vivaciousness for life, her sense of adventure and one story in beautiful particular was during their $5 a day European trip, her constant mantra was "I WANT TO HAVE AN EXPERIENCE WITH A CAPITAL E"
There will be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty. Before the last revolving year is through...*
I smiled.
Isn't that what everyone wants out of this mind numbingly short life?
Isn't that a good thing?
Or in my case... is it an insatiable void I'll never fill?
*Joni Mitchell
What if I just started writing? And my fingers did not cease. If I bent my wrists in an awkward position to hear the tap, tap, tap of my aging keyboard keys and the words appeared as fast as my thoughts flashed across my center lobe or the one responsible for processing this tireless stream of sharp emotions I sometimes fail to fathom.
And the painted ponies go up and down...*
But then I notice, when my brain responds to enough guilt or want to sit in front of the blank paper at an attempt to make sense of the madness, I sink into a deeper set of feelings, stronger than the nagging ones before. And my neuroses becomes aware of my pursed lips and tight jaw, my beating heart feels the pressure of the immeasurable angst leaning on it for reassurance. And me and my rather blessed life in my East Village Manhattan apartment starts to fear that that I'm not living large enough.
We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came...*
I recently went to a friend's Mom's deeply touching Memorial Service on the oh so, peaceful Upper West Side. A college friend recalled stories of her kindness, her vivaciousness for life, her sense of adventure and one story in beautiful particular was during their $5 a day European trip, her constant mantra was "I WANT TO HAVE AN EXPERIENCE WITH A CAPITAL E"
There will be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty. Before the last revolving year is through...*
I smiled.
Isn't that what everyone wants out of this mind numbingly short life?
Isn't that a good thing?
Or in my case... is it an insatiable void I'll never fill?
*Joni Mitchell
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