I booked my flights.
I feel as if I am up late, reading comic books under the covers - Mad Magazine, Playboy, Cracked, Penthouse, Hustler.
That, but without the girls. The night feels illicit, but without blot. It is somehow free, a break from custom.
Something about me is naked now, untarnished.
It's a feeling that I have not had in a very long time, I like it.
It is nobody's fault, nor is the feeling to spite anybody, but it feels very good, and mine. The idea is to learn from whatever feelings one has, right? To step outside the place that has become your life, to verify, to know in the way that only living can allow, to edify the self by choice, by choice of choice.
Another way to feel will arise soon enough, and I will wish to return. I am not that sort of traveler, and never really have been, though I have traveled briefly among them. I have endured the wish and wishes, have dreamed among the lost dreamers. I have drank with the young nearly to the point of dying dead.
I once found several pearls spread on a marble floor in Spain, south along the coast from Tarragona. Nobody knew from where they had come. I was convinced a Japanese pearl diver had snuck in and left them, scattered them as an open mystery. Not a single pearl survived the weekend, when there were so many.
It is an as yet unsolved case.
I am already curious about how I will feel upon returning, knowing in advance that sense will be a truth about itself.
Why do I feel ashamed at how modest my life has become. Why am I so ashamed at the meagerness of middle life, what lesson does that teach me about the remainder.
Yet, nowhere there, or elsewhere, ignites the impulse to rage, rage… against, or for.
I want simple pleasures, the warmth of love.
We can believe we are speaking to ourselves - at our current age, about our current age.
I want life to be better than masturbation, though we all must feel that way, often when it's over.
Yet, the proof. It is the proof, nothing more.
Perhaps time feels all wounds.