the absense of a piano

"...the piano has been drinking, not me."
- Tom Waits

The story about the girl and the letters from God, reading psalms in the feathers of a peacock, each falling parable accompanied by the fluttering of earthly wings. But we make our own happiness.


'We make our own happiness' a missread post on someone's journal but still

True. And this is where we find ourselves. "We are No-One's parents with no simple answers", the call of every generation with aching questions, we wonder why our father's don't care about us while watching their lives spiral out of control.

It was a perfect crime, infiltrating the ticker-tape parade, now at the core and causing havok. Silent goodbyes quelling panic and stopping the bastards from calling us in and giving us the answers we haven't been looking for.


If this is what we want then why haven't we stopped looking?

If all we are is a fragment of a second of a point-of-view of a consciousness then why do these images persist?
A flotsum built craft of nostalgia and childhood dreams drifting on the seas of reality. All we have is this frail vehicle to navigate the portals of adulthood and responsibilty. Why are we gifted with such a poor choice to guide us through life? At every turn and at every different bluster we turn, and in turning contradict, weak vassel that we are, to expose ourselves as inept.

The truth is that from moment to moment we don't know ourselves any better than we know the always shifting waves. Pretence is the only aide to knowledge as we predict the changes after the strike and grow the wisdom after the assult. Participating in our delusions we fool one another. Never admitting the growing chasm in our lives as we seek to be as we wish ourselves to be seen.

Why does no-one admit that as we grow towards, so called, adulthood, these anxieties only grow deeper and more profound? As trite as it may be admit these worries it is worrisome itself that we will not open ourselves to scrutiny regarding this. If we were to admit that all our adult rules and rituals were merely subjective and oft the result of dimly remembered childhoods would be the better for it? Confessing that, like those younger, we were no more in control of our lives that those in thrall to the first passions of youth, and often the deeper, for one finds themselves the more ardent a lover for the repetition of the motions.

With the summer so long we watch our idols crashing down.

"good readers are even blacker and rarer swans than good writers... Reading, obviously, is an activity which comes after that of writing; it is more modest, more unobtrusive, more intellectual."
- Borges