Wings

My entries are growing sparse, reflecting a somewhat empty interior space the past few days. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.

Lots of time playing Tomb Raider this weekend. I’ve played TR2 and 3 so many times that they’ve become habitual. Anyone want to buy me TR4 or 5? My birthday’s in April (5th).

Talked to Michael last night when I forced myself to get on the phone and return some calls. I was in the mood to roll around some more, but he was sore from going to the gym and running all over SOMA all weekend. Imagine that. I was a little bummed. But it made me wonder again what I think I’m looking for.

I used to be a rather depressive romantic, back in my early twenties when unrequited love was a great poetic issue. Hence the depression, and my reservation at returning to that territory. But romance, love it or spite it, can keep one tethered more tightly to each day. We all know it. Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs. And what’s wrong with that, I’d like to know?

I tell myself to accept life’s harsh realities, and not to gild the lily. But where’s the poetry in that?

I can picture a monastic life for myself. And then I hear a song, Springsteen singing “Valentine’s Day”:

“I’m driving a big lazy car

rushin’ up the highway in the dark

I got one hand steady on the wheel

and one hand’s tremblin over my heart

It’s pounding baby

like it’s gonna bust right on through

And it ain’t gonna stop

till I’m alone again with you”

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