Youth is for good times. It shouldn’t hurt. I was taking flight into some memories—those days, they paint ecstasy, seeming boring, before pains registered. I imagine more the nights in discussion. I sense more a disconnection: raindrops gentle in a storm, crickets, a living room full of red robbins. It was bad at times; it was good at times. To have such a dance, to hold such a palm, to believe in existence—notwithstanding the tragic existential. One second & sadness seeps in: whispers of yesteryears, undercurrents, kicking foliage—autumn was near, fantasy was looming, I called self a fantast: enthused glances, unenthused responses, how souls shift in memory; it never had wings, it never soared skies, it never frightened planes—time together, shadowed as it was, so much of life attacking; a mere kid, in an adult world, placing so much upon a given moment. To wonder at seconds, those sad seconds, miserable intuition, for it settled in dissatisfaction; to ponder those good times, arguing, neglected, curious, finding wilderness. If a sad second occurs, in a lit living room, seated at a piano, send a gentle nudging.
