What day is it? Who knows anymore. It's a day of no work. A free day. But those are the ones when I feel most guilty. A day free is a day needed to be filled to my mind's thinking and satisfaction. It's the thinking that gets me. It's the phone calls and the texts and the messages. Uhgh! I'm reaching too much, but only because something is dreadfully missing. I don't know how to look for it, and I don't even know what I'd do if I found it right before me. I only know what it is. Sometimes I wonder how different it would be to have not known, ever. Or to have only thought to know. Or to not even know what I'm talking about right now. What an ignorant bliss that would be, so happy and complete. I've never been one for ignorance though. I enjoy the truth most days, fraught with its impossibilities.
"But what then becomes of the day," you say.
Well, I don't know that either.
Maybe just cut the bowlines and drift out to sea,
Resolute on solidarity.
Go to the ocean,
And I'll take what comes to me.
Because the dreams, I guess, are always prettier when they're unachievable. And so I would be, I suppose, always the dreamer, sitting my place under the pitched sheet in that 1970s Parisian flat, rich in beautiful decor, bold color, and Bertolucci.
"But never forget. And keep breathing when you feel it m'boy."
