Solitaire
Every now and then, for no reason I can figure out, a chill floats down onto me.
Cold settles on my shoulders, and when I try to shrug it off, it only slides farther down my body, until I am shrouded to the ankles in chilly fog.
Through this fog it is difficult to see clearly the people I love. Their faces are blurry and vague. Are they smiling, or laughing? The music in me becomes distant and muffled, and I can't make sense of it. Like the sound of a band in the gym when you are smoking in the parking lot, it has no clarity, only a dull thumping, and I can't find the melody, can't catch up with the beat.
The things I do seem useless. All my projects - the protest song, the ongoing writing project that is this blog, the books I want to read, the music I am trying to record, the computer I plan to build, the places I want to go - who cares? Not me, not now. Would it make any difference if I did them or not?
Sometimes I go outside late at night and stand in the deserted street and look at the sky. Even through the haze and the lights of this big city and the fat October moon I can see a few stars, and I expand into the universe and I feel huge and empty and weightless with the the stars and after a while I can see the little guy down there on the street, so small, his arms waving toward heaven, and I think What do you want?
But I get no answer. From the street, from the stars, I get no answer.
Cold settles on my shoulders, and when I try to shrug it off, it only slides farther down my body, until I am shrouded to the ankles in chilly fog.
Through this fog it is difficult to see clearly the people I love. Their faces are blurry and vague. Are they smiling, or laughing? The music in me becomes distant and muffled, and I can't make sense of it. Like the sound of a band in the gym when you are smoking in the parking lot, it has no clarity, only a dull thumping, and I can't find the melody, can't catch up with the beat.
The things I do seem useless. All my projects - the protest song, the ongoing writing project that is this blog, the books I want to read, the music I am trying to record, the computer I plan to build, the places I want to go - who cares? Not me, not now. Would it make any difference if I did them or not?
Sometimes I go outside late at night and stand in the deserted street and look at the sky. Even through the haze and the lights of this big city and the fat October moon I can see a few stars, and I expand into the universe and I feel huge and empty and weightless with the the stars and after a while I can see the little guy down there on the street, so small, his arms waving toward heaven, and I think What do you want?
But I get no answer. From the street, from the stars, I get no answer.
posted by Larry Jones at 11:20 PM
6 Comments:
This is so beautiful, Larry, I can hardly stand it. I know this kind of fog well myself. At least you're still trying to see through it.
I feel the same way, Larry. Ennui? Or is it the feeling of time speeding up and away from us?
I think this is something most of us are experiencing. I can read it in blog posts and see it on the faces of people I know.
I'm thinking about getting a job as a preschool teacher so I can ask the kids what I want to be when I grow up.
I stumbled over here from somewhere. Thank you for your evocative post; you've shown a good talent eliciting that recognition emotion from your readers ("Ah, that's *me* he's talking about!")
I hope that knowing you reach people makes the world a little less lonely.
Thanks, everyone.
T1 - It's true that melancholy makes me feel more like writing, much like whiskey makes me feel more like talking.
Erin - I must lighten up, if you can hardly stand it.
Aydreeyin - I agree there has been something in the air recently.
JayneSays - I have beaten you to it: I visited your blog on Red's recommendation days ago, and enjoyed it a lot, and will be snooping there more. Welcome to revision99!
T1 again - You have a lot a lot of unresolved anger, don't you?
You've captured a kind of lonliness each of us believes we suffer privately. You've looked at your reflection in the mirror and allowed us to look over your shoulder to see ourselves there too.
Your post reminds me of something a sage once said: Wisdom tells me I am nothing. Love tells me I am everything. And between the two my life flows.
--Nisargadatta Maharaj
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