I went for a walk tonight and came up with this babbleing stream of conciousness. I will bear no resposibility for the time spent by you or any grammatic, spelling, or other errors contained herein. These thoughts are my own and may not represent the opinions of There is no Arizona..., Blogger, Pyra, any known person living or dead, or any beings which may or may not exist on this or any other reality.
My brain is full. I have these half thoughts that come into my mind at a blistering rate, never becoming fully formed. I think something, and it dies, but not before giving birth to another thought, which will ultimatly be aborted, resulting in yet another thought, ad infinatum. Each of these half thoughts, while seeming important to me, end up as nothing. Wrought from nothing, existing in nothing, eventually returning to nothing but the dry Arizona air. Sometimes I wish I had someone to walk beside me, to listen while I walk and drink my coffee, so that these thoughts could somehow become real, simply by being heard. This person doesn't have to talk, but only listen, and perhaps then these thoughts would continue on as their thoughts, eventually changing, mutating, evolving, then getting told to another silent companion who will take them as their thoughts. And maybe they could continue on forever in this form forever, getting passed from person to person, changing with each new person. Will you be my silent partner for a while, so that I can tell you my half thougts?
I was thinking about my old friends (I told you I would get to this). At what point does a close friend become an old friend. What is the exact moment when you have grown enought, and they have grown enought that you really don't know each other anymore? When does calling to chat become calling to catch up, to reminisce? What percentage of memories does a conversation have to contain to stop being new, and end up as only a recounting of things past? How many awkward pauses and aborted stories (because you really 'had to be there') must exist in a conversation to determine that perhaps you shouldn't call anymore, but exchange cards and letters on an ever widening schedule, until the friendship itself becomes a memory.
Lately I have been feeling myself moving. I can feel the seat of my pants moving through space, but I can also feel myself moving though time. I'm getting older, getting to the point that, not so many years ago, I thought was old. I feel myself growing older, but I don't feel quite like I am growing up. My brother, 17 years my elder, has 3 daughters, 2 age 16, one age 14. In one year, I will be the age he was when he had is first. Yet I don't think I will have any. People say it is good to grow old but never to grow up, yet I find myself wishing I had his sense of purpose, a rootedness in direction and security that this is what I must do, not just what I should do. I find myself wanting something real and pressing that must be attended to. Instead, there is nothing. I have done things, but they have all become obsoliete or rather vanished into memory, perhaps never exists at all, really. All I have are memories, and I can feel time wearing them down. The hours and minutes washing like the sea over the sandcastles of my accomplishments. Is this bad? To have nothing real, no lasting legacy to be remembered.
I find myself 2000 miles away from even these ephemeral things. Miles and miles from everything I have known and done. I think over the things that have brought me to this place. The college experience, poor as dirt. The 3 year marriage, ulitmatly ended. The aborted love affair, mostly of my own conjuring, which caused my move. My 'Year of Solitude', which threatens to continue on without end. Now I find myself in another paragraph, which should have preceded the last, because it is more the cause then the result of that thought.
Now I am thinking too much on what to say next, most of what was thought on my walk vanished. I am thinking too hard now because I talk too much in this place. I have grown to know something of you, the reader. I hesitate on somethings because I don't want to offend or drive you off. This I think is a bad thing, because in the end, this is what will be left of me. My thoughts and words, perhaps. Perhaps nothing, they will be only a fleeting thought to you while you are engulfed in your life.
And now all the thoughts are gone. All that remains is a jumble of things in such a mess that even I can't sort them out. A trainwreck of ponderings and half thoughts and quarter thoughts and a string of random words. Let me ponder this for a while, and come up with some more partial somethings to share.
