Some memories you carry, some carry you

The past follows me, but completely of its own accord and in its own preferred method. Some of the best parts dwindle and darken in the distance, just as some of the worst prick like thorns still stuck in my side. Sometimes friends come angelic and return to me lost parcels of my accumulated lifewealth. Sometimes a song, scent, or sight brings back not without pain things I would loved to have held onto tighter. Amid the vast aggregation from a thus-far short trip, I can see myself a nucleus (ha!) pushed in directions by what which I have lived. Some bear down from above. But then as many and to be sure more lift up, way up, like waxen wings bearing a load heavy as love.

I got a new set of wings myself, just recently, and I'll let you, o Reader, imagine how high they take me.

My life, in an Eve

I walked home tonight. Clouds were out but the sky was dry, so I could see the beautiful moon. La luna. It's funny, we have all these different names, but the moon knows no language. It's just there, and to it, we are here. We may even be living on its moon. The same moon I was on in high school, looking up from a blanket in a field one night in spring. The same moon as in college, amid buildings and frigid winds, I avoided my homework and the authorities. The same moon I looked at 24 hours ago, out from under portici. In Bologna, the buildings go out over the sidewalks, covered by porticoes. The city is known for them. It bored itself into my heart forever because of, among a great deal more, them.

Football, or the Value of a Day

The font has shriveled to but a trickle. Words flow far less frequently, and with no clear stream of thought. Days go by without writing nor reading a single word save a sign or a signature.

These times of unproductivity/inactivity leave me vexed and feeling pitiful. And time seems to pass faster, creating the dual sensations of lengthy dry spells and loss of life moments. Youth receding in the wake. Reflecting upon this, I realize it started with the commencement of the holiday. Eagerness for end of work time and start of party time - time that on its own flies lightningfast, time that leaves no time for whatever else. Reflecting further, I recall this same feeling hit same time last annum. Connections and implications, indicating in my contemplations. Something about the value of the day...

This time round this all happens to coincide with the nasty feeling of discomfort. The novelty is beyond long gone, and restless unease produces a nasty flair to temper. Situations I continually come into leave me with feelings of spite and malicious intent. I have a few drinks and say I'm leaving this place.

A friend thinks that's not right. Says this seems to make a good fit for me, and I need to focus on that which doesn't drive me toward thoughts of departation. A story then, and a focus on the good things...

Sweet Snippits of Old and a Cup with a Spoon

The sun bore down on the sidewalks and streets with the white hot light that it burns in winter to fool the eye into believing it's warm while the wind numbs your ears and makes your nose run freely. It reflected off the tarmac and stone, both wet from the melting of the last night's snowfall. White shine and glare and cloud, blue and cold breeze, and city. I stood in the middle of it wondering how best to spend the idle time between classes, the middle of the city in the middle of the country in the middle of the day.