.the rain comes and goes
No sooner do you open the weathered Word document than does the sun peek through the clouds. It is perhaps crudely appropriate; you would like writing to be the more natural state of things, and southern California definitely seems to prefer being sunny to its’ current state. Extending the blatancy a bit more, it has not stopped raining for the last two days. It has been about two months since you (seriously) considered writing anything. It’s not that you haven’t had things to say, but it’s been finding the time to say them. A common excuse, true. But is it really… well… honest? Even amongst the ungodly-fast past two and a half months, you have been able to quite deftly identify a myriad of wasted moments.
What matters to you? Should this question even be asked in the context of something so crude,…
The sun breaks free of the clouds, in full force. It warms your window seat defiantly, and you have to squint to keep writing.
…using time as an objective proxy of importance? Time-wasting is a part of the human condition, to say that something so commonplace can somehow be used to derogate an individual’s… what’s the word…. eh, fuck it. There was going to be another thought, following that one, about how you have to test things empirically to use them to talk about the human condition in that way, how you can’t just say something (ex: all people waste time) and just hope that it is. You wonder how that entire train of thought might sound if it were coherent, read by Carl Sagan, and had a ripping Ishiwatari track underneath it.
Your cursor blinks behind a screen that has seen the ravages of innumerable fingers pointing to now-lost Important Things, and only the echo of the physical punctuation remains. Your left knee throbs a little bit, another reminder of another kind of punctuation, one wrought by the same model of car that you just purchased. It is fitting that you would make peace with this memory, or at least this car, at this point in your life. The old life really is slipping, and slipping fast. The choreography for the last bit of Jack has been dancing around your mind for a while now. Today, you write. Tomorrow, you clean.
The new year, you drink.
For now, you consider sending this to a few people, posting it to the eyes of the internet, and shopping for tires. You wave, in your mind, to the invisible audience, that will soon see this. You are saying, “Hello, I am here, thank you for being patient.”