I am or really I realise that an abstract sort of cynicism has settled its way into my life, like a stone of anger that has plopped to the soft, irritable soil beneath the pond. I don't know if I recognise myself in the murky, unfamiliar ripples on the water's surface. The truth is that I am still subsiding. My waters are not yet clear. Minute reverberations form infinitely tessellated and cross-interfering patternic poly-panoplies as they rebound off the edges of my self awareness. Hidden in the depths, little creatures seek uncertain shelter in the doubtful crevices of my soul, wishing for light, missing always the light, once clear and strong.
I have survived the past's week-nights laced with drink and grand, grand Horowitz. In the dark, drinking heavily, absorbing without superfluous contemplation the exquisite playing of this wonderful, wonderful old man, I have somehow accepted deep within my soul that life is not horrendous, unthinkable, cruel. This man, his music, is too much, too good, universally, absolutely and undeniably perfect, overwhelming. I have been brought low and yet I turn to this heavenly playing, and it lays me down to rest. I thank God that I don't play the piano, because at this moment, with the limited understanding I have, his music is absolutely perfect.
I want you to live happily for ever. I know that I couldn't belong in that picture. I wish for you to be happy for ever, and may God's love be with you, always.
I realised today, listening to U2 on the supermarket radio, that I was me again. Part of me knows that I still miss you. Eating dinner today I realised that I was Levin and you were that girl in Anna Karenina who wanted to fall in love with a Vronsky. I know that now. And the only way I could benignly rationalise everything was to posit that you didn't believe in me enough to trust that I would be alright. I also know, sparing myself at last, that there was nothing I could have done about that. I think that I will be glad to someday, when we have departed this reality, realising everything possible about each other, to gently tell you that you don't need my forgiveness. Honestly, I love you. Goodbye.
I don't know where I am. That is the only philosophically honest answer I know, if at all. I wonder if it's strange that I'm here, lost to myself, when it seems like people, everyone else, somehow live their own lives, blissfully heedless of the things I mull, grapple with, perhaps needlessly. Yes, I wonder if my life is strange, foolish. I get that too. Admittedly, I even expect that when someone appears I will be rescued from this strangeness. And perhaps that is unlikely, wistful. I really, perhaps, am the only person who honestly, truthfully, genuinely doesn't know where he is, and isn't afraid of that warp, that paradox. And it's times like these I feel that that soft, magnificent music tells me not to be afraid, and not to fear pain.
Ok, grandfather. I will not fear pain. Lord, give me this day my daily bread.
I have survived the past's week-nights laced with drink and grand, grand Horowitz. In the dark, drinking heavily, absorbing without superfluous contemplation the exquisite playing of this wonderful, wonderful old man, I have somehow accepted deep within my soul that life is not horrendous, unthinkable, cruel. This man, his music, is too much, too good, universally, absolutely and undeniably perfect, overwhelming. I have been brought low and yet I turn to this heavenly playing, and it lays me down to rest. I thank God that I don't play the piano, because at this moment, with the limited understanding I have, his music is absolutely perfect.
I want you to live happily for ever. I know that I couldn't belong in that picture. I wish for you to be happy for ever, and may God's love be with you, always.
I realised today, listening to U2 on the supermarket radio, that I was me again. Part of me knows that I still miss you. Eating dinner today I realised that I was Levin and you were that girl in Anna Karenina who wanted to fall in love with a Vronsky. I know that now. And the only way I could benignly rationalise everything was to posit that you didn't believe in me enough to trust that I would be alright. I also know, sparing myself at last, that there was nothing I could have done about that. I think that I will be glad to someday, when we have departed this reality, realising everything possible about each other, to gently tell you that you don't need my forgiveness. Honestly, I love you. Goodbye.
I don't know where I am. That is the only philosophically honest answer I know, if at all. I wonder if it's strange that I'm here, lost to myself, when it seems like people, everyone else, somehow live their own lives, blissfully heedless of the things I mull, grapple with, perhaps needlessly. Yes, I wonder if my life is strange, foolish. I get that too. Admittedly, I even expect that when someone appears I will be rescued from this strangeness. And perhaps that is unlikely, wistful. I really, perhaps, am the only person who honestly, truthfully, genuinely doesn't know where he is, and isn't afraid of that warp, that paradox. And it's times like these I feel that that soft, magnificent music tells me not to be afraid, and not to fear pain.
Ok, grandfather. I will not fear pain. Lord, give me this day my daily bread.
