Puzzled

Sentiment is fleeting today, he felt. What phantom of youth would be the first to return and grace him with inspiration this day? Or tomorrow? Or ever at all? Funny how the desire to comment and create came and went in an all-or-nothing feast. It's a rare day anymore/anyway when the time is enough, when the clouds part to reveal some path, shining or not. Is it all just an exercise? Screaming for recognition, he felt suffocated by the increasing commitments. Is this what it is like to have your dreams come true, he wondered? Just another set of problems? Idiot, too idealistic to adapt. Or perhaps it was just that time was not limitless. Time was a cheetah running at full speed, shedding ideas in the slipstream wind until thought was carved into a common denomenator of infinite nothingness.

The wife wakes up and offers some common reminder that the garbage needs to be put out this morning. "We're interrupted by the telephone, we didn't think they were invented then." Damn, Steve Kilbey's lyrics were the text to his life. Ethereal emeralds haunting with their perfect "let the listener interpret their own meaning" vagueness. And that's the deal, he didn't want telephones ringing to interrupt his momentum. That creative plain where the world makes sense and all desire seems possible was hard enough to find and slip into some days. God forbid that fools want to stay there forever; it's a drug, after all, you know, some eternal screaming in joy from delirious lungs and synapses.

And there's the crux, isn't it? At least to those practical ones who claim we are dreamers and we are lost. Are we artists gifted in our ability to attain some special, fleeting nirvana that so very few understand and we could never explain except through our vague art and our earnest, smirking, tender references? Or are we fools refusing to accept and embrace reality? Or both? It's tragically hard to put the whole picture together, isn't it?

Well, he felt, maybe I am getting closer to finishing the borders of this puzzle, establishing the framework of how I work and where I fit in. He could hardly contemplate the pile of multi-colored internal pieces laying off to the side, in the future, unfathomed.