I thought I had it all figured out. I guess at one time I did, or I guess at one time I thought I did. Have it all figured out that is.
Now my mind is tired, muddy, muddled, and adrift. I used to keep a journal. I wrote words and verses confidently and eloquently. They traveled up through my blood, from my heart to my brain, and down to the tips of my fingers. It made me think, made me reflect, and John Dewey said it best I think, “We learn not from experience, but reflecting upon it.” I thought maybe writing would help me. Reflect that is.
Streamlined consciousness, putting thoughts on paper, quick, unedited and insightful. For me that is. Help me figure out where I’m at, what my priorities have become. Why I’m happy and why I’m not. I still travel, and work, and love. I wonder now then what compels me to seek answers inside, aside, myself. If the wind has left my sails and the sky escaped my eyes, then why? Story and song flowed from my lips like a snake-oil salesmen. Not in a malicious cure-all quackery way, but in way similar to a warm breeze that carries the seeds from a field unseen. Each wispy dandelion seed a part of me and part of, what now seems like, a myth. Drifting benignly across a late May afternoon, up and out of sight, and now I’m wondering if they ever took root. I guess what I’m looking for are the fancy and fables of my old life, to re-kindle them, spark a flame of passion and wonder. To find happiness and success in the mundane, because after all like Vonnegaut when describing this terrible wonderful world;
“Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.”