Again, another day seeing the great Blur. And what might that be? The Blur, as I define it, is the passing not only of the natural world before our eyes — we rarely look up, rarely look down — but the peopled stream we find ourselves in. Day after day we go about our “business” blind to what is before us, and if I or you were to truly see it, what would we make of it? And then we die, all caught up in a blur. I find it troublesome, not a little strange, that today went by and I went with it, unquestioning, unasking, metabolizing nothing of it. Another day gone, done with, and as a child it had a different meaning and context to it, because we were immortal as children. The fantasy is that one day I squeeze that day’s essence until the pips squeak. I often feel, philosophically, I imagine, that I am half a biting snap away from rapture. I often wonder if I have the “tools” to make something of that opportunity if it was granted to me. So I feel parapalegic and meaningless at the same time. As I distance mystelf from these thoughts as I write them, I sense it is that old black magic again, that characterological structure of who I am as a person, as a soul. I don’t know when I became so infected, but I am. I feel I would like to become more purposeful with my life as the day draws dark, as the years close down before me, as I land in the sod of autumn, eternally stuck, never to see the spring again.
Melancholia on a beautiful and graceful and warm Arizona night. I’m allowed. The Blur will pass until the new one begins on the morn.
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