Time and Light Switches

This may very well be the strangest year I’ve had yet. Which I suppose being 24 I’ve only got so much to go off of, but still. If you told any past age of myself any event of this year, there would be only one that I’d believe, the rest would loose a cackle out of me. Probably initiate a few tears as well. So instead of focusing on all the mountains I’ve still yet to climb, I'll share one of my meadows with you.   The novel I’m currently in the first draft of is going wonderfully. Not every day is a spectacular one, but every step along the road lends itself towards progress. The best part is I enjoy the crafting of the story, the twists and turns, the ups and downs, the intense and calm moments, compiled together make an almost cathartic project.  It’s both an escape from my own swirl and a making sense of it. They say authors pile their trauma into their books and I’m starting to see that more clearly. Can see how that could make like a runaway train, can see how it migh...

Thinking seems to be the crux of it. Thinking too much about the place I’ve moved to, thinking too hard about whether I like it here or not. Thinking too often of that I’ve lost. Inflicting past actions, words and future catastrophe upon myself. It is best simply to let it all lie. To let lie and only enter into contemplation once itself knocks on my door.   These past months have been hard, the mountains sprung from nightmare if truth be told, the valleys conjured out of deep seeded fear. All that’s to say, I’m rather proud of how I am still standing. Proud that the words once again flow and no longer remain tinged by a sense of another world; no more than usual that is.  Tis truly the old adage of time healing wounds, I suppose I had not seen its effect quite so clearly before now. It’s been a month since, I feel a bit more like a feather and it will once more again be up to time to decide if that is a good thing or not. But I’ll continue on this path, in hopes that it s...

I think I wouldn’t like music as much as I do if electricity wasn’t a constant hum in my blood, in my ears and bones.   I think I don’t actually like the eternal buzzing and murmuring of racing electrons. I think it bothers some part of me. The part that was meant to keep watch over the fire at night. The night watch part of me and how I was made.  I think I find listening to music on a record player so decadent because it is the closest I can get to listening to the instruments as they were made to. Rather than a transfer of energy through means I can’t hope to understand.  I think I am not really a hipster the way these words paint me. I think I just miss the water and listening to the wind and waves. Miss the rustling of the leaves and the crash the water makes when it hits the shore.  I think I was sorta made for the wild. Not in the hunt and gather kind of way, more so in the way of keeping company with the trees. Less of the droning of innovation and “pr...

Writing is hard right now. It’s sluggish and outpaced by my racing fatigue. I’m tried, and would like nothing more than to sit on the beach and watch the waves carry on as if nothing amiss has ever occurred. It’s a kind of slow falling. My head hitting the pillow and waking the very same moment with sun striking me in the eye.   I miss the clouds and how they covered the sun, making it just that much more bearable to breath. Feels like living in the end of a movie, where the friends all went their separate ways and the treehouse burnt down. Went home to the empty house, so home it is not and home now becomes something to chase. To look for. It’s an unwanted adventure.  Never thought I’d miss it like this, hoped I wouldn’t have to live it again. So writing is hard.   Looked at the evidence of my absence and wanted to cry, because that was real. There was evidence. I’m caught up in my own rotation and I’d like to touch back down. But I don’t know how to take off the p...

I used to describe grief as a river, and then a tidal wave, and a number of other things.   Now it just feels like being in an old and dark room with only a flashlight for light and a stuffed bear for company. It’s not bad really, it’s even a little familiar, but it certainly isn’t comfortable.  It goes something like this: I’m sitting on the floor, in the middle of the room, a room that could be somewhere I once lived but perhaps not, it’s too dark to tell. My legs are crossed, in my right hand I’m holding a flashlight, like it might be a sword and keep my from harm. But really it’s just a flashlight. In my lap is a stuffed bear and it’s quite possibly my bear, the one I’ve had since the day I was born. I hold the bear with my left hand, like it might help any of it make sense. It doesn’t.  That’s how it feels, how it looks to me.  When it was just the thing that might happen, just the reality of mortality that would one day catch up to someone I loved, it wa...