Saturday, March 8, 2014

Socrates and a Bowling Ball

Late in the evening. Or early in the morning. He sits drinking a beer. His second one. Reading. Learning. Quiet in the isolation we often forget. A needed vacation. The stress and strain was once unimaginable, but not it has merely become his reality. He does not even care much for alcohol anymore. And this time the beer has nothing to do his escape. Rather a substitute for a view of the cherry tree. Under the tree, relax and reflect. Revisit. Ponder the evening and wait a moment until the next tidal wave of the day. He couldn't escape even if he wanted. To not get out alive is the one truth he knows. The astronaunt nor the brightest star has managed to devise a plan of their own. The thought found of the edge of the star he stares upon. No agenda, no house chores, nowhere to be, nowhere to go. He is required is to be. There he might have found himself. Learned something new, but one can never know until the test. "To know a hammer and the skill to swing it. Grown cold in the early decay. There we find our way. Each and every moment. Of every fucking day. If you asked me fifteen years ago, I would have said, 'I'm in my prime.' This is the best I have ever been at life."

He finishes his beer and continues reading. Something he read once in a book. Both the writer and the main character (pretentious fuck) would sit up late drinking wine or some shit. He the less sophisticated thought to get another, but for the moment resisted the temptation. He began rolling a cigarette. The way that he would roll a cigarette was nothing sort of amazing. A bafflingly [sic] unnecessary skill. He could open a pouch, gather a paper and pinch of tobacco, roll, lick, and light in less then twenty seconds. When the crossing sign would change from the white hand of the man to the countdown is when he would begin. Maybe even break a record. Thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten... Alas the countdown would stike zero, and his cigarette would be just shy of completion. Literally, close but no cigarette.

Here humanity has managed to created something inherently strange and alien to our being and natural order. Never mind the devastation for a moment, that is not what we are talking about here. We're talking about that deep down below-the-fabric-of-the-skin behavior of interaction and connectivity, or lack thereof man go without saying. 

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