If I could adjust to writing first thing in the morning, save a little more money from each paycheck, learn to clip my toenails more regularly, wipe well, flush better, etc.
Something important is different in the evening, perhaps several things. I'm not sure if it is a loss of lucidity or an increase of a desire to be less lucid, but that's a part of it. Each day is long, filled with thoughts. I can't remember where I left off writing here a year ago and I can't bring myself to go back and look. My reporting on the world had become unbearable and I don't know how I'll adjust to the forced recognition that it has only grown worse. I pine for a younger life, when I could write about music happily. Well, that is an adverbial stretch - youth sings a few of the miseries.
I felt content a few years ago, riding my bike, listening to music, sunsets and country roads, rolling vineyards, having eaten an edible. It was pleasant, and I was content. Getting hit by a car will fuck you up but not all at once. Unpleasant waves of foresight, memory, and the naturally detestable caution that attends aging.
Fuck, am I becoming my other?
Oddly, I've always known the cure: stop feeling old. There is always somebody who is willing to tell you you're not. Old, I mean, or that you shouldn't feel that way. Try talking to somebody that you love romantically about the difference between feeling and being. It's a great way to disagree with each other about fundamental things, possibly forever. Until the end of feeling and being.
I promise to continue bravely blogging here if I lose any battle with cancer, even a fist fight, a hot dog eating contest, etc. Any competitive scuffle, I'm here.
Just like my other.
.
