Today we were to have an incredible amount of snow. There was no snow. The meteorologist promised and did not deliver. I sometimes wonder why people make promises they never intend to keep. Not in big things, like love or elections, but in the things that count -The newspaper boy who says he will save an extra paper, and doesn't. The laundry worker that tells you your suit will be ready on Thursday and it isn't. Love, well yes, but like everything else, we go from day to day, We move from promise to promise. I've had a good many promises now, so I can wait for the harvest. And some of them, they come about.
What about the ones that do not? The empty stale existence full of sickness and fear seems to place me in a lonely cage. Here is a great example. At present, I am sick. I am uncertain with what and am hopeful the Doctor can tell me today at 2:45 pm. I think for normal folks, this is not an issue. They get sick with the flu or what have you, rest etc. Because of the million others issues I am faced with daily (and let us be honest, I barely get by anymore), this seems like the nail in the already closing coffin door. So what now?
I feel like by the time I get to old age, where life slows down and ailments come calling…you know, the time where you cannot really enjoy things…I feel like by the time I get there, it will be nothing new. At 45, it has gone too fast. When you're young, you always feel that life hasn't yet begun—that "life" is always scheduled to begin next week, next month, next year, after the holidays—whenever. But then suddenly you're old and the scheduled life didn't arrive. You find yourself asking, 'Well then, exactly what was it I was having—that interlude—the scrambly madness—all that time I had before? I know what happened. It was wasted on fear and anxiety. Pills, places and failed antidotes to the madness that has become, and I guess always was me.
I have one-sided conversations with the world wide web, as my fingers move to outrun my feelings, letters fall in place and words are formed. Our conversations are never easy, but as I-we-get older, we are finding that our conversations must bespoken. A need burns inside us to share with others what we are feeling Beyond a certain age, sincerity ceases to feel pornographic. It is as though the coolness that marked out youth is itself a type of retrovirus that can only leave you feeling empty. Full of holes. I am full of holes, shit, and mental madness. Lunacy perhaps? I have always liked the idea of Superman because I have always liked the idea that there is one person in the world who doesn’t do bad things. And that there is one person in the world who is able to fly.
And I think back over my own life and I realize that my own nature-the core me-essentially hasn’t changed all these years. When I wake up in the morning, for those first few moments before I remember where I am or when I am, I still feel that same way I did when I woke up at the age of five. I am still falling.