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12:44 AM What’s got me reeling is trying to make sense of my own history. The novel of my life. I’ve got the heads-side banalities figured out, thanks to a vivid and reliable memory. It’s the tails-side picture of meaning and pattern that’s evasive and keeps me up at night.

What’s it all mean? This time or that time. This person, that person, this event, that conversation. What’s it leading to, if anything? Questions possibly without answers, and if so, I’ll be circling an empty circle, chasing the shadow of understanding for an entire lifetime.

2:00 AM I thought I knew everything but there was this little parcel of knowledge you forgot to give me. Everything you tell me, that I get from you, has one and only one purpose: to give me a ground to stand on, relative to you, relative to everyone and everything. So when you spring something on me, it shakes that ground and I stumble for balance like on a rumbling subway train. It makes me angry enough sometimes to spring you into oblivion.

6:22 PM I guess it’s true. You can’t rely on anyone but your blood brothers, your mother, father – family. I’ve tried and looked and searched deeply and earnestly for a family forged on intentions not blood, but it’s not out there to be found. I’m young still and my quest and hope aren’t over, but this is what I’ve seen so far.

Calibre 89

Innocence hurts. The world seems cruel and you wish you weren’t so. But those who know cherish that innocence in you; those who’ve lost it or the far fewer who’ve kept it still. They know its value, that it appreciates with age, like the Calibre 89. Unlike it though, innocence doesn’t rust with time. It doesn’t gather dust and doesn’t require maintenance. It renews itself every morning as eyes open and sheds from your mind every night as sleep takes over. Lightness is its modality, swift its speed, grace its style.

6:36 PM Also it’s true that nothing means anything.

9:57 PM Words flow freely (idealism)
To capture them is a matter of luck and skill (pragmatism)
One fine morning the river dries and the words stop flowing (realism).

9:58 PM Nightmare of need

The hope of knowing you and loving you will let me live.
The terror of your separation is a heavy burden on my spirit.
The way I yearn to need you will torture my pride.

Carry me; throw me in the river and pray good riddance.
No one should ever need like I need you.

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