Are these wild thoughts, thus fettered in my rhymes, indeed the product of my heart and brain? How strange that on my ear the rhythmic strain falls like faint memories of far-off times! When did I feel the sorrow, or act such a part, which I have striven to shadow forth in song?
Pondering weak and weary, as a madman once wrote…
I should be in bed – yes, a good dose of sleep would do me a world o` good after my day`s labors. Yet, here I remain, desperate to put down some few pithy lines of thought or feeling that might stand as marker for the day which now slips through my fingers.
Tomorrow encroaches at a disturbing rate; this day dies quickly, and I am given to flickering impulses of almost-panic – given to that queer desperate calm of resigned malaise that, for me, usually falls in lieu of outright dread. These are shadows and nothing more, merely the residues of a burned-out flame. This is not how I am.
I was gone longer than I was home today.
All of the minutes are remembered and come crashing down into the echoing expanse of my mind, I am pulled in all of the various directions at the same time. Ranging from the mundane to the pivotal, as all experiences are, I think on my own words and deeds… wondering if I was able to work any good upon the young lives which are under my charge, second-guessing the numerous missed opportunities within the hasty matriculative process.
My time is precious, precious as the warmth from the Sun and just as interminantly ephemeral. Golden morn fading into brazen Noon passing into Evening shadow falling into the cold dark of Night. My Monday mornings are too quickly becoming Friday afternoons.