Days don't end
I feel a bit like a post-rock song these days, tied up in infinite depth, hoary, exasperated, completely third person disconnected looking down and away and yet all too fervently venting, emotional, thrashing at life and all there is. Mmm, post-rock. Silly me. Silly broken nose of mine (which by the way still feels funky 3 days after the fact... no more tickle fights methinks).
I feel I'm missing something that I know I had before. A piece of myself that I never remembered losing or discarding, but then again, nine lives is a long time to live and die within, a grave at the end and homes in between and all that jargon of long ago thought. I suppose I am admitting that despite my overall clarity and tranquility, if you will, I am at a loss for once, unsure, unstable, but undeniably enjoying the adventure. I think after all the adaptation and stretching of ideas over the past years I filled in all the crevices that housed every other emotion besides anger, because, of course, anger has no rational root and is never subdued by rationality. I'm just a bit of a dense cloud of sand and fog at the moment realising that maybe what I'm after is only inhibited by myself and not all the extrinsic forces I blame normally (it makes life a lot easier when you can simply point and say, "nyeh nyeh, its all their fault," much like the little kid you are at heart).
At the same time I feel numbed, I also have a sense of something waking up, maybe the very numbness, like pin needles in a wrist is subsiding, or it could be something far worse. I can't really conjecture or care to when all-in-all I'm not that concerned with the entire situation. Let that be a lesson, one day at a time without thought or worry can often lead to the best run ship, ie life. I'm really just an insensitive bastard and and ass, and most of all, just really feckin lazy.
It's fun, it's good, it puts me to sleep at night. I tend to wonder if what makes life so difficult is this emotional labeling, this identifying and leading ourselves down into a further caustic trembling, all the while I can hear Christmas Steps just trancing off oblivious and yet oddly passioned for something it doesn't seem to be a part of. We should all be post-rock, negligent to ourselves, subserviant to others, but then again, I've been away for a long while, traveled some perilous ways and places, and what is left may not be myself or anything remotely like it. Just a remote part of an idea I had as a child buttressed by the personalities of everyone I encountered along the way. But as long as there's a warm bed to go home to.