Thursday, August 14, 2008

I love you all, but I have a life to live.

At times, times of scotch, smoke, Hayes Carll, Hank, George, David Allen and faces; faces looking back at me from where I left them. In my mind, they all blame me for going away, and leaving them to themselves. I trip over memories. Memories of girls covered in youth. Stumble. Memories of boys full of future glory. So many memories, a trip and a stumble into them, and you can feel them again. Eyes wild with beauty, and the smell, the musky smell of excessive freedom: More than any of us could afford.

Enough water has run under this bridge, to carve a ravine. I look down, from the railed bridge of the present, and get a little dizzy, a little melancholy. Thoughtful. I miss every moment, but wouldn't trade this moment for one spent. Never. That is innate and why they linger and crowd. They were all the present moment, once. They all filled my thoughts and defined my horizon, at one time; past. That does not lessen their pull, or their ability to reach right through.

Memory tripping: An indulgence like scotch over gin, or tokes over smokes. So many friends, friends that I loved. I loved them all. I still do. That is my nature; extremes. Nothing was ever what it was, it was always what it was and all that it could possibly be. No one was every who they were, they were always possible. These are roots and curbs, we all trip over.

At times, times of scotch, I lift my small glass to their expansive memory and wish them well, and wish their weight was a bit less. At these times I always lift more than one glass, nursing the moment into a night. I embrace them in order to stay afloat. They are too many to deny, or ignore. They are so much of who I am, and who who I've been. I drink again, and again. They must all have their due. I pay and pay, waiting for a freedom, a lighter demeanor, a different step.

I miss them when they don't visit.

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