It is - a bit - like this.
Hands reach between to express what is within...and what to put here, that meets with the criticism it might obtain - that might reach him? I'd hoped at the start of this to find a medium of expression only to then realize that identity was the issue - I don't put anything here that I wouldn't want posted in that office in town. Constraints, you see, on the muse.
I do consider another place, yes, wherein I could remove all those constructs of propriety. But the internet is forever, isn't it? And would I want that? At 65 or 75...would I want those words to yet live?
Ah, but that is the point, no? All those dusty pages in the safe, the night stand, the files...why keep them, otherwise?
I haven't visited those old friends in a long time. So many troubles there and so few bright days, I think it might only bring back that melancholy. In truth, I had very few pleasant times BT - Before Trooper. Oh, certainly there were some very lovely memories but...it was too often bleak. And the pages reek of it.
Ah, and lo, now comes Ralph Vaughan Williams' Fantasia to serve me...those notes...those low and building notes first came to me when I was perhaps 24. It was my first apartment, across from the infamous Atlanta stripclub and flop house. I'd put up light pink mini-blinds and the 3rd floor apartment would glow with the sunset. It made one look amazing - which was a good thing as I was far too often...galavanting. I had naught else - no cable, no television at all, just a Walkman, a record player, and my books. All the books...
The same notes wended their way to the better apartment, the location of the photo there to the right. The music was a soundtrack for an incredible romance, doomed from its very birth, and yet sweet...so sweet. And then...through a marriage and a betrayal - even there it lilted and rang. Sometimes quite loudly, and even through the terrible crash as the Waterford fell from drunken fingers, the wailing on knees at the loss, the treble loss.
Building again as the screen's light showed that final sentence, the period punched in, the code saved, the tale writ large though no one saw. Arching over as the metal taste came, crashing hard on the teeth...unforgiving and unforgivable the act that I put down with deliberate movement. Down, down and a reaching out in a night for an answer that no one had.
Constraints...even in all the cryptic litany I cannot be sure. Who knows me? Who knew me then? And would they care? Do the words even matter, now, aged as they are and without their original poison?
I've not scratched thoughts on those pages in a very long time, not having the need to detail my life minutely. Not there. And only slightly here...slightly...enough to keep these fingers nimble and my mind engaged. Ah, the words - the language - it has always ensnared me, really. Every trial and travail has come from them. And perhaps that is why I resist them, now, not wishing to bring to this life any of those past troubles.
It is a kind of muteness - a hacking off of a limb, a mental appendage - to write this way. But, just as the song has its crescendo and silence, so must the words, sometimes. And in that quiet, that echoing silence, peace can be found.