a hitchhiker told me i don't talk a lot... made me feel fine... made me quiet

i recently found a band that i like: Blind Pilot

sometimes music just speaks to you, and sometimes it doesn't.

i won't go on to say that these musicians speak to my soul. i won't say that they found a voice to my inner monologue. i won't say that they capture the energy of my inner day, each and every day.

i won't say that i've listened to their album 4o times in the last week and a half

i imagine they are a few guys with a guitar and a simple drum. i imagine they feel good about the music they make. i imagine they like sharing it with the world and they would appreciate it if a few people sat down and listened to it.

i think there are moments in our lives when we are receptive to certain paths... when we want to see things presented to ourselves in a distinct way. i find it curious that the music that speaks to me comes from a band called Blind Pilot...

me being a pilot and all

not a bad image. a pilot being someone who is in control. who has possession of his world... someone who is skilled and trained to guide his being through all dimensions... but he's blind. flying on faith. or memory. or trust. or hope.

i've always been in control, or striving for it. i've always been driving, or at least i thought i have been. i suppose the first part of healing is admitting there is a problem

i'm not necessarily sure where i'm going. i'm not really sure what i'll find when i get there.

there... step one... now what?

Wax Poetic

i wish i could remember what i was looking for.

it mustn't have been too large... smaller than a breadbox... and yet too big to put in my pocket. that's always how it is with important things... nebulous.

i think i felt it once in my hand. small and weighty, i could almost close my hands around it, two at a time, but not quite. i wish i had taken a better look, instead of just feeling it along my fingers and thinking i had it squared away... dicked... settled.

looking back, i never should have closed my eyes. i should have opened them, looked down, taken it all in. i should have held it up to my lips and breathed it in. i should have curled in a ball around it. i should have.

but i didn't, and i lost it

i must have put it down somewhere, thinking i'd come back for it... thinking i'd pick it up again... never figuring that it wouldn't be there when i finally reached for it...

you should have seen the look on my face... the fool... the sap... the imbecile.
the one who knew finally and too late

it is easy to forget sometimes... the value of what is in your hand. it is easy to look at what is on the horizon and forget that precious weight in your hand. i cannot explain what it feels like to have felt it and lost it... to have misplaced it... to have misprioritized... to have misfocused... to be awakened into your own personal incomplete reality.

time will heal. time always heals.
whatever that means

it means time helps you forget. time helps you move on. time helps you put distance between you and your mistakes. time makes it easier to distract yourself with the immediate pressing matters of the present and disremember the past... to let it fall out of focus.

so there it is, over my shoulder and out of focus... behind me.... possibly in front of me... but i can no longer remember the weight or shape in my hand. i can't even trust that i'd remember it if it's mass settled into my palm... or on my chest... or my heart... or my mind. so there is a trust, a blind faith, that it will all will be just fine...

surely i'll know. surely i'll recognize it.

surely i won't put it down on the piano, as i have before, and walk away to focus on other things. seemingly more pressing things. things on the horizon. things just beyond my grasp.

surely not.