[...And I am no longer afraid of anything, save the life that, here, awaits...]

Some moments are still. Happy. Or moving, but still happy. Content. Everything fits, fine. The world is in perfect harmony and Apollo looks over all, with ease.

And yet it so often seems that there is always a Dionysian chaos waiting around the corner. Ready to consume you, and you, powerless to stop it. Can you resist? Can you scramble back up the ladder and hide again from the chaos, withdraw back into perfect harmony, sleep off the beating hearts?

None of it makes sense when the sun is shining: The sun is shining. There should be no chaos. Only perfection. I should feel at peace. I should feel no turmoil. I should be blind to it, because it does not need to exist. The path should be clear in such brilliance. 

But, the clouds roll over. The room goes dark. You look out the window and see the first specks of rain darken the stone outside. You anticipate the thunder, and suddenly you give in to the weight of your heart. You see no way to resist the call of mindless Becoming. Dionysus in all his rage finds you, and you collapse in obedience to his will. 

No insight can help you now. The memory of the sunlight cannot bring back your clarity of mind. You must give in. You have no choice, though your insides are screaming to free you from such blind and dark passions. Born into recklessness. The only way out of it is through it. The casualties, unknown.

The Birth of Tragedy.

Note to self: World seen through eyes of child. Kitchen window onto forest ground.

I cannot escape the sound of scraping metal

Low whistles blowing through open windows

Alone in the hills of Nova Scotia

It is early Spring, call it late Winter?

Perhaps somewhere in between.

The snow has melted.

The trees are bare.

Just me and Gloria in this giant old house.

And yet, always there.

Always the sound of scraping metal, and

Low whistles blowing through open windows.

Back in the height of summer,

I am sprawled out on a mattress in Montreal.

The sun is slowly setting

And I am in an almost empty room

Stealing the seconds

From every remaining ray.

Impending darkness,

Solitude.

The sound of scraping metal

To take me away

From so many empty days.

I miss your stories. Speaking of ways in which you proved your worth to men of nobility; Joys found in free treats; Bursting hearts over wrinkles; Through your own wit and charm, all that which you've accomplished. 

I miss your mannerisms. I miss the way your eyes would fall far when something [shouldn't have] hurt you. I miss mornings. I miss biking through city streets, feeling your presence somewhere in the shadow of the same mountain.

But 

I don't want to miss feeling inadequate, falling short of your dreams of me. 

I don't want to miss disappointing you, having not kept up 

With where you'd have me be.

Today I subscribe to my own dreams of silly old me.

And hope that an old he only sees what's beyond my fancy dresses,

Knowing that I'm perfect in my becoming something other

Than any other's dream.