Cacaphonious

These notes I write to you I write just as much if not more to myself, these tidbits jotted along the margins of the living aching breathing beating pounding days as if to collect proof for later, some small token that we were, some small reminder of what to us mattered. I've these phrases and short notions that toy their way along, fermenting towards something more, so with a thought for later paragraphs I'll store them in my phone. Of course tomfoolery will forever transcend the particular grace of words, but in these notes I've a record for (and of?) the explanations and apologies that often enough follow thereafter. It's rare I'm anything as consistently as a walking running riding disaster, igniting as I do no less under clouds than in the sun, and so reasonable it is that I'll wonder: if I can write it right after, maybe a wrong'll be righted. Or perhaps it'll just be written; some days I'm less than certain I the difference know. But, well: the difficulty I've in differentiating past and present and future's well-documented, these tenses bleeding against each other and none of them ever quite knowing to relax, and so this too should come as no surprise. I've a gift, though, really - this knack in forever fucking it all up - so I suppose there is that. Mr Positive, yes.

Put it another way, then; I shall. Drunken shenanigans are my gift, this we both know well, and so it is that this thing itself'll come as surprise (call it a page first from your book, perhaps), but that I've not even a little outgrown such immaturities goads me. More bridges yet may I have last night burned, torched as they were by these troublesome decisions, and I'm inclined to wonder what it is in blood such as mine that makes it so near impossible to accept (being in truth more inclined to destroy than build) that which might for longer than a moment bring joy. Contentment I clearly cannot have, satiation being another great unknown in this immoderated vocabulary, but damn if I won't keep hoping to learn some how's and why's, to pick up more than just some passing familiarity with the concept of satisfaction. Thinking of more than just mornings after, a realization: it may well be that this miscreant role I play's far worse than any hangover such nights may gift me.

And so only natural it is that I'll find this 'consequence-free summer' hath wrought more shame and trouble than I might e'er imagined possible. A caricature of a character I once was it seems I now seemingly am, typecast of typecasts; this world in which character flaws and poor decisions are but trophies to carry forth is a troublesome, meddlesome sphere - and one which I think I'd be all the wiser to cast off, no longer embracing it as my own.

But we are who are, are we not? And what course have I from here, but a long litany of shameful condolences and regrets that cost much and likely matter little; what's done is done, haven't you heard? And swimming until land I'll no longer see - this sort of running and escaping I know well and execute frequently, with some semblance of skill, even - but to swim against the current, against the tumbling cascading cacophony of these errant nights? That a much much more difficult thing is, a task I've no confidence I've the strength for.

So instead for company I've once more pulled a Moody. This of course is meant less in the professorial Mad-Eye sense (no magic have I, delusions and hopes aside) and more so in the junkshow scarecrow spirit of Hank; again to a place I've slid that leaves me questioning what power words might have. So little hope have I for the redemptive arc these stories might well seek; were I better at navigating such stories, perhaps it'd be different, but you well know the stories I write have no happy endings, and nor, I suspect, do most of these temperamental lives I'm leading. Call me a pessimist if you'd like, and perhaps it'll be accurate even, but there's a wholly different truth I much prefer. I'm nothing short of a gluttonous fool, it's so, and the label I wear with pride. The day may yet be coming that these immoderations prove to be a costlier variety than the bulk of my previous transgressions - but I won't see it until it's here, until it's past, and then I'll bemoan that too. There's losing and there's being lost and sure there's joy in the journey but I've sure no idea where the hell I'm going, and this mind map's two words only: "writing" and "whiskey."

Or: if I start drinking now, maybe the noise now bubbling over will drown itself out before I even make it back to the cities. I'm being facetious. Maybe.