An End for Daylight

The last time I wrote here, people told me to change my clock. Two seasons later, they tell me to change it back. I have singular feelings about being led astray by others, only to be brought back into the good stuff by the same ones who led me astray. There's some lesson here to be applied to meth users, or habitual cheaters, or the next kid to break his face trying to film himself popping a wheelie from his roof so he can send a YouTube link of the act to Vida Guerra's MySpace profile, but right now I need to concern myself with myself. That's evident in a blog entry, but not really now that I type that out and think about what those words mean. What is a blog entry but being unconcerned with ourselves for ourselves, and entirely filled with ourselves for others. Our personal pieces are for you to see, and we always act differently when others watch, don't we? Dostoyevsky comes out of the bag when the right people are watching. A stranger sees us grieving, and we show him how we grieve. How do we actually grieve? We don't know, you know. Single tasks don't give us cause to record internally.

I saw my friend look dead today. Maybe that's why I'm typing now. Maybe that's why any of us type, or read, or connect.

Couple of important changes in awareness to share. One: the lesson has already been written:

“Master, what is it that I hear? Who are those people so defeated by their pain?”

And he to me: “This miserable way is taken by the sorry souls of those who lived without disgrace and without praise. They now commingle with the coward angels, the company of those who were not rebels nor faithful to their God, but stood apart. The heavens, that their beauty not be lessened, have cast them out, nor will deep Hell receive them—even the wicked cannot glory in them.”—Inferno, Canto III.

Typical with me: my best ideas are from others, learned in part, remembering just the basics and forgetting the luscious details and the essential core. Realizing this is a nice feeling, though. It's fun to take part in a Dante simulation, in a pantomime of what we are not. What we are so often disappoints when we take the time to go deep. Or frightens.

Second change: there is no change. The stream into which we step really is the same.

Third change: I'm writing again. Nothing new for me to start writing again. Maybe this will be the time it continues. If not, there's always more friends that will look dead, more authors to pretend to be, more streams to contemplate from the underside, where light never comes out of the bag because the right people are never looking.