A long dormant voice now speaks of trips half taken. I leave the safety of numbers for the mystery of the trail.
I read a quote somewhere which said that anyone who reads a person’s diary gets exactly what they deserve. I find blogs all to be vaguely pretentious – except for mine, which is exceedingly pretentious.
These are the words of a man pulling himself up out of a long dark.
I heard the spring peepers annual call the other night, and though it is the truest sound of Spring’s beginning, it always makes me sad, probably because I feel like I am the only one in the world who is listening to them, and this makes me feel alone. I still have faith in people, but they insulate themselves, they let me down. I am so driven, I can’t understand people who aren’t. I don’t understand so many things, but I know I’d rather be alone with the nighttime than huddled into bars.
These are the words of a man opening his eyes.
All my friends are lonely – every single one of them. (Perhaps that’s why we write?) Let’s stand together in the gloaming and hold our lanterns aloft!
These are the words of a man who feels the need to articulate everything in his heart and doesn’t like it, who craves attention almost as much as he craves solitude and likes that even less.
Everything feels like a resurrection: riding to school in the mornings again, watching the Cubs, writing long stories that have no chance of being published, sleeping by the open windows. Time has been a congealed mess; distant memories float close to me; on the one hand it feels like years since it’s been warm; on the other, it seems like just a breath. It’s all so glorious and painful.
I actually feel happy, though it’s a happiness tinged with great melancholy – I can’t explain the ache I feel right now…it’s about to storm and there is profound energy. I’ve tried for years to explain it, and I just can’t. It frustrates the hell out of me.
I read a quote somewhere which said that anyone who reads a person’s diary gets exactly what they deserve. I find blogs all to be vaguely pretentious – except for mine, which is exceedingly pretentious.
These are the words of a man pulling himself up out of a long dark.
I heard the spring peepers annual call the other night, and though it is the truest sound of Spring’s beginning, it always makes me sad, probably because I feel like I am the only one in the world who is listening to them, and this makes me feel alone. I still have faith in people, but they insulate themselves, they let me down. I am so driven, I can’t understand people who aren’t. I don’t understand so many things, but I know I’d rather be alone with the nighttime than huddled into bars.
These are the words of a man opening his eyes.
All my friends are lonely – every single one of them. (Perhaps that’s why we write?) Let’s stand together in the gloaming and hold our lanterns aloft!
These are the words of a man who feels the need to articulate everything in his heart and doesn’t like it, who craves attention almost as much as he craves solitude and likes that even less.
Everything feels like a resurrection: riding to school in the mornings again, watching the Cubs, writing long stories that have no chance of being published, sleeping by the open windows. Time has been a congealed mess; distant memories float close to me; on the one hand it feels like years since it’s been warm; on the other, it seems like just a breath. It’s all so glorious and painful.
I actually feel happy, though it’s a happiness tinged with great melancholy – I can’t explain the ache I feel right now…it’s about to storm and there is profound energy. I’ve tried for years to explain it, and I just can’t. It frustrates the hell out of me.
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a fellow listener