How many people remember Oliver Hazard Perry?
Master Commandant at age 27.
Are we prepared to say goodbye to the era of major sea battles? So long to land wars? Farewell to air sorties?
Is it possible that the paranoia of our species, the heightened fear of territorial and tribal losses, is waning?
Haven’t I already bid adieu to our species in general, spending less time analysing fractal patterns in the local solar system?
For the past three days, I have looked at nothing, my eyes closed, my neck and shoulder muscles tensed in anticipation, my body under blankets in the sunroom, waiting…
How much courage does it take to write outside one’s comfort zone?
What is a set of states of energy but an illusion, an imaginary boundary?
Giving unlimited time to my thoughts, letting them ebb and flow in and out of my seeming consciousness, wondering why an insane person like me can and does still exist, fighting day after day of self-elimination ideation…
Watching the decaying wave patterns my written thoughts have appeared as pebbles in the pond of society, knowing every word we make and pronounce in front of others is more significant than we notice and often less significant than we want.
Caught, or lost, in a maze of my own making, creating conflicting pathways, one centred on the social precepts of a supernatural being, the other centred on the naturalistic worldview, with decisions branching out and crisscrossing paths.
Voicing characters based on personality snippets within me — a happily married man, a celibate husband, a court jester, a woodsman, a wanderer, an eccentric wealthy hermit…
Face-to-face with sexual desires I cannot express because extramarital love is out of the question and intramarital love is no answer.
Waiting to die because killing myself is not an option.
Knowing I am the humble nobody I felt like as a kid, happy for anyone just to smile at me, a smile meaning more to me than gold or food, a person willing to hold my hand or give me a hug worth more than I deserve…
I meditate upon the meaning or the meaningless of it all, aware that everything, especially me, does not exist.
Oh, to be rid of these depressive moods once and for all, to slip quietly under the surface, making no more waves, this pebble taking one final trip to line the bottom of the pond, soon covered in mud and forgotten…
= = = = = = = =
To write a prose poem in opposite terms, reversing the sentiment for posterity’s sake, takes love to another level, here in this hermit’s rundown cabin in the woods, slowly rejoining the random fractal patterns of nonanthropogenic nature, centered everywhere and nowhere. I’m getting too old to fall in love, less deserving of others’ attention when I was a young, entertaining lad, thumbing his nose at school authority.
It is time to return to my daily meditations found in books and woodland hikes, mentally preparing the older self for his exit, make room for youthful enthusiasm to take centre stage, scratch philosophical treatises in dirt before a storm and peacefully fall asleep one last time…