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Tuesdays...
11/25/03 03:48 am...can find a person even when they try to hide.
Tonight there is a taste on my mouth that is salty and sweet and pickled and red. Tuesdays are becoming red, it seems...or is it just that I eat red food on Tuesdays? Actually, I can't honestly predict a true pattern based on two instances of a day in which I ate food that was red. Or, if you like, I could, and then I could make a habit of it. There are certainly more than enough red foods to choose from.
There are thousands of choices which a person makes every day, most without thinking about them. I could have gone to bed three hours ago. I could have come home earlier and not spent hours talking about things that are of generally very little consequence to most people, but make a difference to me, to me, to me, because it is the trust implicit in the fact that they are said at at all that matters. I could, right now, choose to put on my shoes and walk out into the cold and the damp, sending myself out on a strange choose-your-own-adventure. That is life, I think, on some levels. You take one step and another, and the more you think about your choices, the more precise your life can become. Too much thought can constrict, but not enough can be worse in other ways. To live one's life without thinking of the consequences, of your choices and the way they impact other people's lives--to live without taking into account how their choices can impact your life. What sort of life would that be, living only for yourself with no regard, no ties, no true bonds--? Would you be happy without the people around you? Can you learn self-sufficiency without being truly alone?
There is a fireplace in my home (did you know that? it has only ever barely touched on my consciousness, as though I do not believe that an apartment should have a fireplace.) and somehow I cannot quite trust it to burn itself out, even though it is wizened down to a few glowing chunks of charcoal. It is a thoroughly pointless exercise, but it still burns, and so I do, too, on into this quiet evening until the sun, fresh from its palaces in the east, begins to chase the darkness, bleeding from a thousand tiny wounds, back into hiding.
Tonight there is a taste on my mouth that is salty and sweet and pickled and red. Tuesdays are becoming red, it seems...or is it just that I eat red food on Tuesdays? Actually, I can't honestly predict a true pattern based on two instances of a day in which I ate food that was red. Or, if you like, I could, and then I could make a habit of it. There are certainly more than enough red foods to choose from.
There are thousands of choices which a person makes every day, most without thinking about them. I could have gone to bed three hours ago. I could have come home earlier and not spent hours talking about things that are of generally very little consequence to most people, but make a difference to me, to me, to me, because it is the trust implicit in the fact that they are said at at all that matters. I could, right now, choose to put on my shoes and walk out into the cold and the damp, sending myself out on a strange choose-your-own-adventure. That is life, I think, on some levels. You take one step and another, and the more you think about your choices, the more precise your life can become. Too much thought can constrict, but not enough can be worse in other ways. To live one's life without thinking of the consequences, of your choices and the way they impact other people's lives--to live without taking into account how their choices can impact your life. What sort of life would that be, living only for yourself with no regard, no ties, no true bonds--? Would you be happy without the people around you? Can you learn self-sufficiency without being truly alone?
There is a fireplace in my home (did you know that? it has only ever barely touched on my consciousness, as though I do not believe that an apartment should have a fireplace.) and somehow I cannot quite trust it to burn itself out, even though it is wizened down to a few glowing chunks of charcoal. It is a thoroughly pointless exercise, but it still burns, and so I do, too, on into this quiet evening until the sun, fresh from its palaces in the east, begins to chase the darkness, bleeding from a thousand tiny wounds, back into hiding.
