Thursday, December 28, 2017

Seagull Oceanside Canopy

We board up. We survey the conditions. We wait for the break.

And we ride and hope to we don't bail hard or eat the board.

Never before have I felt so out of control with life than I do with a daughter.
Yes- she is only just a biscuit over a year old. Yes - I know I'm relatively young.

But I remember a time...I remember a time where I couldn't wait for my fingers to fly about the keys and crank out rhapsodic prose that would lick the lips of the lyric-thirsty reader. Hell - there were mostly no readers. It was mostly just me reading my own shit. This blog was my own wheelbarrow - unloading the dirt of my mind upon the garden of thought and reflection, and taking stock of the bright, sparkly, multi-coloured peppers, carrots and beans of reflection.

But now, I slog. I sludge and trudge. I stoop to the demands of the day, and my posture wilts with each waking hour. I try to get ahead of the curve, but the pitch floats and then flies into the mitt of Catcher Time before I even think about the idea of swinging.

Sloan is a growing person - and a 'growing concern' the best sense of the term (to use my dad's words). I am just more cognisant of the fact that the light of our lives is fading. Every breath takes us closer to our last. Some days, I find it really hard to get death out of my head. The concept of dying and departing - not only from your own loved ones, and your city, and your families, and your music - but from your own body - just seems super bizarre and implausible.

But there are some things that help it slow down a tinge. Family time. Cutting down on plans with people. Exercise. Writing music. Writing just to write. Release. Open conversations.

There must be more.

We can only hope.

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