She has symmetry in her movements. He isn’t sure what that means, or why he thinks it, but it came to him, suddenly, the first time he saw her, or maybe it was the second or third or forth, but when doesn’t matter as long as the feeling and truth remains.
He thinks those words could begin a poem. She has symmetry in her movements. But he dislikes poetry apart from a few poems, and those aren’t really poems at all, but stories with form and semblance of meter.
A dance, a story, a banter back and forth between two.
He savors every moment.
--
The deer are calling him. He smiles despite everyone else’s lack of understanding, or caring. Is okay. Is his alone.
--
He is a fool, he knows, but the world is ruled by fools and only the less foolish accept their foolishness. To be a fool is to live, and he wants to live, to take chances but smart chances—chances that can tilt the world off its axis and put it back on again, make everything right.
Things have been wrong for too long. Life? No. Life was never wrong. Just things, certain things that he told himself were inconsequential, matterless, when they are truly of the most importance.
He thinks that Tom Petty once said it was good to be a fool.
--
I keep crawling back to you
I keep crawling back to you…
I’m so tired of being tired
Sure as night will follow day
Most things I worry about
never happen anyway
--
The ranger came with burning eyes.
He often wakes, surprised.
The song reminds him every time. Eyes—there are few things better than looking at someone and losing yourself, and wanting to lose yourself forever, and being perfectly happy with that. He wonders if that is the meaning to everything and believes it is best that he never knows. The excitement fades once you know everything.
--
Some things are forever. He hates clichés and begins to scribble this out, disgusted with himself.
--
He enjoys terror and fear—they are separate entities (Steven King says so)—and the other emotions that make them come alive. He enjoys and hates them, knows that most things fall when they are tossed into the sky, but he acknowledges the other truth. Some things float forever upwards, find their place in the stars, where they belong. Everything does not crumble.
--
He watches stars and thinks, wonders if they’re watching him.
--
Even in nature there exists perfect architecture, an accumulation of raw materials preordained to coalesce and create, to build something out of nothing and make that something everything. Symmetry even in nature, between two, to form entirely flawed fucked-up flawlessness. Such things are rare, but existent.
--
At night he wishes the world was darker, that the lights below would fade to reveal the stars above. There is more to life—he knows this and does not just think or believe. Does not know why this matters when there’s still so much here incomplete and unsolved.
--
He sees her standing at doorways and vanishing. Finds it amusing and perhaps symbolic? No. Knows not to look for symbols in everything. Does not believe that Beowulf is filled with phallic imagery, hates British women who insist otherwise.
But he knows some things, and these are good and frightening and dangerous things. They possess symmetry, and knowledge, that when things are not right and good, they will eventually be right and good. Time parallels the stars. Endlessness. Eternity.
He can wait for a very long time.
--
He plays a chord that isn’t just heard, but seen and felt. The music continues.
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