A haunted place.
There’s this room.
It’s fairly simple, as far as rooms tend to go. Not very big x Not very wide. As cramped as a freshman-year dorm and just as sweat-inducing as a burning summer in the big city.
Pacing back and forth, living my life inside that small space.
It can be quite lonely, sometimes.
When you’re out and about in the world, trying to hold on to the last vestiges of a place that you used to really, really know. A place that used to be yours, in the kind of way that matters, a place full of friends and memories; yes, where everyone knows your name. Yet…now, it’s not the same. No names here. No friends here.
Nothing left but new attempts at amiable conversation, trying to pick a pleasant stranger out of the crowds so that one might enjoy a nice Hello. A word, or even two.
You can always try, for things of that sort.
After all, you can go home again. But it’s never quite the same. It’s not the place you left behind. It’s not the place where you fell in love. It’s not the place where your dreams massaged your temples and whispered, “It’ll be all right.” It’s not the place you knew.
It changed. You changed.
Even though it is. It isn’t. Even though you are. You aren’t. Might be worse, might even be better. It might be a place that will take hold of you in an entirely spectacular manner, and finally help you rest once again, warm and calm and wondrous. I dunno, it could happen. But it will never be the home you knew. Y’know?
After all, how could it be?
In the room, pacing back and forth. Throwing your fists forward until beads of sweat fly off the tension of your muscles, until the air grows heavy and takes on that spicy aroma, the unmistakable hot-soup scent of human effort.
Now then: You try your best, out there in the lonesome ebb and flow of the way things are. Trying to work out the currents, trying to bring yourself ever so much closer to the sense of the home that you’ve lost; or perhaps, a new one altogether. You look out everything, every little thing, every big thing, every grand touch of something-or-whatever, always-and-forever.
How do you know what you’re worth?
It seems that there’s little appeal, out there, toward hearts beating freely on grubby sleeves; but what if that’s the only thing you know? And, more importantly: What if it’s the only thing you can trust? What do we do with our morals? With ourselves? What do we do with our knowledge, with every little meme that enriches our genes with a touch more understanding?
How do we know what we’re worth?
Taking the room for all it’s got. Spending your time in it, with it. Drinking down slugs of coffee and feeling your suddenly waxy skin burning like a candle, while you never stop pacing, back and forth again. Learning what there is to know. Feeling around the edges of the place, and taking some time to etch tiny marks into the corners. That’s what I’m doing, that’s what I’ve been doing. Hour. After hour. After hour. Trying to see the room for what it is, trying to see it for all it can be.
What do you suppose all this is about? Why the pacing, why the thinking, why the rambling, why the wallowing, why the skipping? What is this for? Well…the ways of the world. Right?
Perhaps so.
That’s the intent, in any case. An attempt at the intent, to take us past the sights of the lost. Trying to tell the truth, no matter what the cost. And it is a cost; for there is not always beauty. Not in truth. Yet it’s still the best we have.
Such a thing would, should, could never change,
Pacing back and forth, and forth and back, one room, one place. But still, still, still moving forward. I was out there today, of course. In a place that was once mine. Trying to make the most of it, of the differences within. Truth be told, I didn’t do a very good job. That happens a lot. No matter where, not matter what. Nothing devastating on my sweaty brow, building up towards something to see. And yet…
As is often the case, there could be something here.
It can be quite lovely, sometimes.
Regardless of my worth, regardless of my station, regardless of the impact I make on any little thing, on any little someone; there is loveliness for all. Even when homes wash away, in truth and in memory. Even when we find ourselves at a loss, we can be just a hopskip away from being found. Even if moving on is a fool’s errand, one can just keep pacing back and forth, somehow moving across the world like a Fool-errant, until another home is made. Some worth is claimed.
At this moment, there’s very little that I can actually say, aside from one thing, one thing solemn and pure:
Right now, I have the room. It’s mine. Part of my sweat, part of my fists, part of my thoughts -- yes, a part of me. No matter what it says on the lease. Or on the door.
That’s the truth.
And it’s a beautiful thing.
It’s fairly simple, as far as rooms tend to go. Not very big x Not very wide. As cramped as a freshman-year dorm and just as sweat-inducing as a burning summer in the big city.
Pacing back and forth, living my life inside that small space.
It can be quite lonely, sometimes.
When you’re out and about in the world, trying to hold on to the last vestiges of a place that you used to really, really know. A place that used to be yours, in the kind of way that matters, a place full of friends and memories; yes, where everyone knows your name. Yet…now, it’s not the same. No names here. No friends here.
Nothing left but new attempts at amiable conversation, trying to pick a pleasant stranger out of the crowds so that one might enjoy a nice Hello. A word, or even two.
You can always try, for things of that sort.
After all, you can go home again. But it’s never quite the same. It’s not the place you left behind. It’s not the place where you fell in love. It’s not the place where your dreams massaged your temples and whispered, “It’ll be all right.” It’s not the place you knew.
It changed. You changed.
Even though it is. It isn’t. Even though you are. You aren’t. Might be worse, might even be better. It might be a place that will take hold of you in an entirely spectacular manner, and finally help you rest once again, warm and calm and wondrous. I dunno, it could happen. But it will never be the home you knew. Y’know?
After all, how could it be?
In the room, pacing back and forth. Throwing your fists forward until beads of sweat fly off the tension of your muscles, until the air grows heavy and takes on that spicy aroma, the unmistakable hot-soup scent of human effort.
Now then: You try your best, out there in the lonesome ebb and flow of the way things are. Trying to work out the currents, trying to bring yourself ever so much closer to the sense of the home that you’ve lost; or perhaps, a new one altogether. You look out everything, every little thing, every big thing, every grand touch of something-or-whatever, always-and-forever.
How do you know what you’re worth?
It seems that there’s little appeal, out there, toward hearts beating freely on grubby sleeves; but what if that’s the only thing you know? And, more importantly: What if it’s the only thing you can trust? What do we do with our morals? With ourselves? What do we do with our knowledge, with every little meme that enriches our genes with a touch more understanding?
How do we know what we’re worth?
Taking the room for all it’s got. Spending your time in it, with it. Drinking down slugs of coffee and feeling your suddenly waxy skin burning like a candle, while you never stop pacing, back and forth again. Learning what there is to know. Feeling around the edges of the place, and taking some time to etch tiny marks into the corners. That’s what I’m doing, that’s what I’ve been doing. Hour. After hour. After hour. Trying to see the room for what it is, trying to see it for all it can be.
What do you suppose all this is about? Why the pacing, why the thinking, why the rambling, why the wallowing, why the skipping? What is this for? Well…the ways of the world. Right?
Perhaps so.
That’s the intent, in any case. An attempt at the intent, to take us past the sights of the lost. Trying to tell the truth, no matter what the cost. And it is a cost; for there is not always beauty. Not in truth. Yet it’s still the best we have.
Such a thing would, should, could never change,
Pacing back and forth, and forth and back, one room, one place. But still, still, still moving forward. I was out there today, of course. In a place that was once mine. Trying to make the most of it, of the differences within. Truth be told, I didn’t do a very good job. That happens a lot. No matter where, not matter what. Nothing devastating on my sweaty brow, building up towards something to see. And yet…
As is often the case, there could be something here.
It can be quite lovely, sometimes.
Regardless of my worth, regardless of my station, regardless of the impact I make on any little thing, on any little someone; there is loveliness for all. Even when homes wash away, in truth and in memory. Even when we find ourselves at a loss, we can be just a hopskip away from being found. Even if moving on is a fool’s errand, one can just keep pacing back and forth, somehow moving across the world like a Fool-errant, until another home is made. Some worth is claimed.
At this moment, there’s very little that I can actually say, aside from one thing, one thing solemn and pure:
Right now, I have the room. It’s mine. Part of my sweat, part of my fists, part of my thoughts -- yes, a part of me. No matter what it says on the lease. Or on the door.
That’s the truth.
And it’s a beautiful thing.
posted by Your friend, the fool at 10:48 PM
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