this. these things I miss. reading aloud alone to hear the fanciful voice of characters come to life. being the only living. breathing within four walls. absolute silence in the cityscape.
waking not to wake up but to acknowledge and respect the day. then pocket it an waste it away because it was mine to do with.
singing songs and sliding along the floor returning to a creative journey that took me nowhere and never needed completing. taskless except for thinking and processing. loneliness is an art form and an oft overlooked badge.
playing the same guitar notes over and over again. minute changes invoking subtle wrath when they just don’t sound right. pull offs and hammer ons into infinity. no songs need to be written. no score to be completed.
an audience and liaison into the looking glass. to see ones reflection in the mirrored edge only leads to questioning the relevance of tomorrow.
mortgage. retirement. career. adult situations carried out by children. old soul at fifteen. elder statesman at thirty. there is always more to learn. digest. process. but to what? myth. legacy. infamy.
what are you leaving? ask not. but for you are youngest immediately and older as you read on. bring forth another. disrupt tomorrow. or just move along. nothing to see here.
