Love & Death

Listening in his head to "Homeward Bound", he considered that love and death are seemingly the most common and terrestrial of muses. Matters of profound mythical and magical significance, they're bandied about like so many pieces of candy on Halloween. Something powerful, bloody, and staged with smoke and mirrors contrasted with a frame of infinite compliment to the experience, love and death are somehow not antipodes in the globe of his mind. They are complimenting each other. One gives birth to hope and renewal, the other subtracts the divinity from the walking man. All his words and all of their boomeranging and gallivanting, this internal dialogue was also mounting an attack of mediocrity. Undermining himself, he too wished he were homeward bound.

The weather: The most satirical of symbols. Even it held some sort of meaning, some representation of the macrocosmos, the scale and scope so calm and cool and clear. The air which betrayed him, abandoned him to some barometric prison at times was taking a breath; it was resting and catching its wind, this air. The sunlight moved through it with a rain of illustrative depth and glinted in his lenses with a sound of pianos. His own psychotica sounded like the resonant and percussive melody that pianos prodouce, like his living was a very well timed and gently played rhythm, one hand meting out time and the other dancing around on it. This orchestra of light, this symphony of energy on all of small, large, and undefined scale and proportion reminded him of the square beliefs that some people espoused so vehemently. There was a magic in life, and it didn't seem to die. Most often, he didn't have to look for it, it found him when he wasn't hiding and left him with the impression that he wasn't very well hidden when hiding so.

Small victories held as much meaning and were of such laughable importance to him as the small defeats which could drain his very heart of blood, though that afternoon he would attest to a revelation that the victories somehow enveloped their defeats. The idea that one of a pair of opposites can not exist without its twin was not a new one, but the great and mystical roles of all that is good and all that is bad seemed to have the surety that they have been attributed for so long. In a way, he was finding the specie for hope of his own. When he read Keats' Hyperion that afternoon it moved him to tears. He was a crying bastard, Mr. Snachron. Mr. Snachron cried at the strangest things. Love and Death, he considered, precipitated so many tears. Yet they were as common as tariffs and as magical as the most epic of triumphs.