A Lonely Quest
Strangely, a cool sense of tranquility washes over me as I come out of my reverie, my black reminiscence. I look out my window to the street below.
The vision of youthful ideals embodied in vaporous blur upon the pavement has evaporated. Gone for the moment but sure to return as an untold want, a wish for explanation: why did it all go so terribly wrong? I shut it out, shut out irrational thought, excessive thinking, which leads to depression . . . to insanity.
I pull away from the window, shut it tight against the chilly predawn air, and forget my dark reflection. It's only a phantom, scarcely the real me. I leave my letted room and shut the door behind me. A walk in the moonlight will do me good. I will see my inner turmoil in a new light, the softly suffused illumination della bella luna. The black shadow of the walking dead, cast upon the asphalt by the gracious moon, will be my companion.
Chilled to the bone, I put aside all personal comfort.
I tread my way slowly, reverentially, to the frosty view above that patiently awaits me. Full, round, gleaming is beauty supernal: my exquisite, my lovely Moon. I wish to touch her but am overwhelmed by giant sentinels whose barren arms stretch with desperate longing toward her. For all their height, those statuesque trees are no more able to caress her silvery face than I. The eternal, unrequited pining for what is enthroned on high.
I seek something, someone on high to tell me who I am and where I am going, but it is a thankless and lonely quest. The lunar queen has no spoken answer, perhaps, yet her presence comforts me as none other can.
I travel the worn roads of land and mind . . .
Benny woke up in his bed glad to find he wasn't dead
He used to laugh he used to play the sun was shining everyday
His legs would run free on the beach and life smelled like a ripened peach
But now his body feels like schlock he goes to bed at nine o clock
Oh cursed spite, oh cursed spite there is no way to set it right