When age comes to a cliff, a man begins to ponder mortality. If to give aloneness away; if to sing a solemn song. It was riddle to drive him; it was a man left to himself. To count prayers, to dispute miseries, to find solace; a stranger, a creature, wondering concerning hertz, as they mean something inconsequential, something like an incantation, never those Niles, those Euphrates rivers, never Songs of Songs. I don’t know what hurts more: physical contact, or insatiable voltage. A soul learns to live with it, moving through glades, camouflaged in his mind, hacking at tendencies, reviewing alienation. And I’d be remiss in not asserting, a man would destroy tender blues, waving jazz, old treacherous soul! It goes to orientation; it becomes what was learned: so short lived, to hate a man’s heart, to seethe at a woman’s voice. It’s ever poetic. It can’t just live. And what will a man chase after; and what does a man see? He knows his failures. He plays a clarinet, mourns an obo, sits, carving memories. To know what is, to venture down a long road, essentially, to be human, to ache in solitary. Let a song blaze on repeat, if to find self, if to let go of inhibitions, soft into a moment, trying as they say, reframing a post, holding to a feeling, forfeiting a claim, mesmerized by what becomes psychological. Alas! A man tortures his brains, if but to live, fraught by something explicable poesy.
