Nighttime Food For Thought

Outlook.
An experiment in daylight, and the wind keeps cold the clouds of my dreams. My mind is a sky that opens to the outward view but is held from the inward gaze by the large sphere of planet that the sky of my eye surrounds. Oh wait. That’s me, spaced again.
What is the nature of desire (I re-ask myself) that its sway directs the coursings of Humanity’s rise and continuing development? To attain that which has a pleasing affect upon our perceptions and considerations is second only to the reverse aspect of denying and avoiding unpleasant aspects of awareness, pain. Basic stuff. But following this thought further, what is the nature of pleasure itself? Pain is easy: it hurts. Pleasure is a tenuously ephemeral sensation, for it feels good, but what is that? How do our ambitions and goals correlate to the pursuit of feeling good? Pain can be sharply (pardon the cut of my wit) defined and experienced, while pleasure has less tangible substance, with softer definition. How pleasurable can an experience become compared to how painful one can become?
Anyway, the day is on the sunny side of noon and there is a party mood in the air, so let’s go bowling!
But first, I dial the sights and aim high for the low down on honest equivocation, as it lies straight and true in line with the lay of the land. Barred by the (still) sharp points of cold delineation, I draw out the ice from my vain coursings and take the pulse of my stone hard head of steam, marking where I kill time and fill this notebook like the graven image of a champagne brunch memory. The drinks are on the hearse, dead to writes. The quarry I would dig and delve to mind, is, to all appearances, full of potential rewards (a gold star, a purple ribbon, a will-o-the-wist and a cloud), but my abilities to actually implement this desire is at the core of my original question, and now brings me to another such thought: how involved can one become in attaining what feels good, and how is that measured?
I sit and watch to write, to reach out with ink and paper to touch your eyes (in whatever translated form you employ) with the perceptions I scribe regarding the moment I contain, never truly held yet never letting go. My life is, thus, quite similar to yours, except that I’m silently writing about it here and you are reading about it there, from your own focus of the hear and know. See?
Regards.
Plans awry themselves on a regular basis of random predictability, giving option no other choice but to choose something else. This usually leads my attentive direction down the ambled path of inertia, letting motivation lapse and lull along the sway of wayward wiles wending their way away along the sway of wayward wiles until, like a stutter of surprise, I realize I’m lost. Looking around for some familiar landmarks, I continue walking down the lovely garden trail, lush greenery accenting the bright colored blooms of your eyes. Ah yes, here we are. The energies of my youth (gone wandering down the primrose path of wistful memory) are held in the works I have created, in the things I have done. I struggle to maintain creative efforts, still realizing new directions of insight which inspire offshoot ideas and applications that evolve into other perception stimulating endeavors for cohesive application, up to and including daydreams. But my interest in effort toward such creativity has waned, my energies run low. Life grows forward and the years weigh in inverse balance to abilities. Of course, this is not to say that my output is kaput (did that shot put your field off track?) for the stuff keeps coming on, just not as readily as in years passed.
Input.
The view is still new and well read for the writing, and I read to (in)deed seed the prospects as they lay claim to potential that eyes the light of well mined thoughts in the carverns of written communication. Still actively static at the motionless movement of written words. That is okay, as it (this wherewithal of time/space relationshapes) remains a bright chilly day. The warmth of success touches my outward senses, but does not reach closer than knowing it is there.
Desire.
My camel, my duck and I are enjoying rollicking adventure in the outer space realms of poetry (where else?), but I can’t locate my notes from earlier attempts to tale the telling … and I know I had some worthy lines. My small notebooks have proliferated such that I don’t have an accurate count or location, and that’s where I thought I would find the goods. However, I have (since writing the original obstenatations) found a collection of the little buggers, pored over each of them several times and finally gleaned the location of my memory’s goal. Notes on the trip we three had (you, me and them) are sound. But the sought after voice of my intended recollections are not therein located, and I am deafen by their silent absence. I have finally recalled them being written on a random sheet of unlined paper that I carried in my pocket in lieu of a notebook. So that’s where I’ll look next… wherever that might be. Everything has got to be somewhere, so I’ll apply myself to perspicacious luck and hope for the best. Meanwhile, the story has grown and becomes viable unto itself, as is, without the ungained goods. . Good. Pleasure, following that which is desired because the sensation attracts my extended considerations toward continued application.
Observation.
I am considered by the curiosity of a young boy seated in the next booth I face. I think he sees my plated cookie, while wondering what I am doing writing. I offer fun-filled flights through make-believe space with best companions, duck and camel. Ride, young one, and enjoy the view. (And while you are thus occupied looking, can you let me know if you see where those earlier notes are?)
Consider.

Tangled Chill

Tangled Chill

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