Reflections of an Unsuspecting Saturday.

As I sit here in my gentleman's countryside cap and nonchalantly puff this unlit Black&Mild, I realize that I was meant to be great. However, I am content with the assumption of greatness hovering above me, regardless of the fact that it is unlikely my name will one day be anything more than a narcissistic screen name for various internet profiles. Much in the same way I would rather not light this cigar; it was destined for accomplished smolders, but it shall remain on the brink of potentiality. I am happy to hear the crackles of my phonograph on this Peter, Paul and Mary record. I cannot help but think of the journeys of things around me. Where has this record been? Whose hands have held it and contemplated the world, much as I have done of late. What ears have heard the sorrows of injustice and the happy melodies of memories? The underlying breaks in the notes bring these questions to the forefront of my mind. I am comforted that I may pick up my guitar and strum the most elementary of chords. My fingers form the shape, and I hear the low voice of Em and find understanding in its timbre. It is basal want of discovery in which I am inclined to believe. I suppose in this searching and insatiable way I have been able to share my most indelible silent discoveries with only myself and the atmosphere that will eventually lead to every creature and abiotic force derived or imagined. I am glad to be wearing this cap from Dublin, though I am not a gentleman. I have recently rediscovered the magic of a well worn dictionary, and at this moment I have no less than five about me. Each holding within them the keys to communication of ideas, emotions. This morning I saw deer in our yard. I felt terribly unsettled to be at the same moment so unconnected and inextricably bound to this creature, and my eyes wandered the trees and stream. The birds, the squirrels, the lives I couldn't see beneath me. I contemplated these things, yet thought nothing of consequence at all. Who am I to think that my assumptions and considerations are worth the air upon which they float?

I am happy to write to invisible readers, and draw for imagined viewers. I revel in my tastes, knowing that I will never be able to relate everything I've ever felt to anyone because I cannot myself comprehend its consequence upon anything. I am happy to be speechless when words are needed, to be absentminded when I must focus on today. I am happy to be here, or there, without a care and a million sorrows, because I am overjoyed to simply be.