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Ten Long Years, (wip?)

   That winter I was new, risen from an emotional death and malleable. I read The Hobbit and chain smoked and Dimmu Borgir’s Puritanical Euphoric Misanthropia continued to enrapture me. I sat in the cold of winter a different person than a few scant months prior. I could feel greens and browns and blues and the texture of trees beneath my fingers. The world was wonder and magic. I didn’t know where I was going, but I walked anyway. I didn’t need to know. I walked through forests, dreams, fields of thorns, madness, and clarity. Those were the last breaths of something I’ll never grasp again. But why? I am in control of my self. Should it not be so simple as to turn a switch and deem myself anew and full of such energy again? Where did that life, that spirit, that creative thrust, go?

just a record,

Crime As Forgiven By a smoke filled bedroom somewhere in the night half drunk Against the will of the pending morning looming over Me just a handful of years ago in a confused time with no direction the future hidden just past the smoke and scent of stale beer beneath an aimless longing. The potency of it is not lost with time.

Looking Ahead To Autumn

   I find myself, on a rather quiet Tuesday afternoon, thinking quite passionately about the coming autumn. While I do love the summer in all its vibrant life and lustre, nothing touches me so deeply nor cracks my heart open so succinctly as the grand finale explosion of nature that is the waning year. While I should be living in the moment, living these brief warm months to the fullest, I always become distracted when I feel autumn on the horizon.

   Perhaps this condition is indicative of a broader issue in my perspective. I do often find myself focused more on the goal than the journey in everything from the most minute, daily tasks to the larger picture of life. When I walk to the store, I am focused on the store, not the walk. When I have sex, I am inclined to seek the climax, rather than enjoy rest of the act leading up to it. When I commit myself to house cleaning, I think only of the clean space rather than the work. In all of these things, I find I have to force myself to take notice of the present moment and enjoy it while it is here.

   The effect this way of perceiving the moment has on memory is a deep, almost inescapable feeling of nostalgia. In my downtime, when I  have not an immediate goal to focus on, my mind and heart are perpetually sucked back to my past, remembering and wishing I could go back. I drift from memory to thought, everywhere but here. Yet again, I am forced to make myself notice the present moment.

   I am aware that this is not the most enjoyable way in which to conduct myself. I know I need to focus on the present moment, for it is all present moments that build toward the future. A goal is, in part at least, the sum of its preceding steps. A close, if distant, friend taught me a great deal in focusing on the moment rather than the past or present. However, no matter how much I try, my natural inclination is to drift in either direction.

   There are events, incidents and situations that force me into the moment, and likely would anyone. At the birth of my son, my mind was nowhere else. In the midst of my first time to my favorite lake, I was truly centered and right there. Any point in which adrenaline came in to play, I was nowhere but right in the moment. I can only speculate that a combat situation does this very thing. Despite these moments, though, I can’t help but wonder if there is a way to train my mind to automatically focus on the moment, that I may not require the conscious act of putting myself in the now.