Sunday, March 10, 2019

Sundays with jazz in other rooms

I finally went for a bike ride. It has been about a month since I have been able to ride regularly, which is a big part of what keeps me happy. Without it I am suicidal just like everybody else. 

Well, I can say that, sure. An old friend from the prehistoric world of nightclubbing committed suicide last night. I wasn't that close with him but that specific news always tends to send shock ripples through the survivors, what's left of them, the remainders. Some thoughts become more difficult once you have children - like this one. You want everyone to be happy and safe. It's silly. You know it can't happen, but you tempt things so much less now. You understand life differently. The old things seem so foreign, far away, and yet dangerous. I used to romanticize decay as long as it wasn't sullied with any desperation. One lets their guard down every now and then, things begin to slip, the old standards become the augmented new. 

The first thing I always want to know whenever I hear the news of a suicide is: did they have children? As if that's the only thing that matters after something like that.

I could be wrong. You tell me. 

I am like an opioid crisis when waiting for clouds to clear. If you've ever wanted to die in your sleep then you might understand what I mean. I mean, when people say, How would you like to go?

You tell me. Have you ever, in your sleep, wanted that.