Insomnia revisits, sleeping in a different house, reminders of things I'd rather not think about and wish I could forget, hoping that the dog's skittishness doesn't mean any more than that, tuning out the conversations in the driveway of the house next door, coming off of caffeination, alternating stressful socialness and aching solitude.
I know that these pangs of lonesome are nothing compared to those of others, thinking of a relative of mine I picked up tonight who things never did work out for, unhappily married and now widower, with a daughter institutionalized, alone in a house losing hearing and mobility, surrounded by accumulated tchotchkes reminiscing about days long past and friends long dead, with nothing to look forward to, thinking more of what he's lost in this world than what could ever exist in the next. I stand there and don't know what to say and just break inside for him.
Finishing out tonight on a front porch looking out on blue world drenched in golden light and firefly flecks was good for me, to be in a place where I don't have to try too hard, pondering things we'll never totally understand as power chords and solos snaked through the night breeze as the world begins to rest.
The blueness is lighter than the mood indigo, a melancholia of accumulation, a tangle of emotion needing to be unraveled, in so little time and so much exhaustion of the emotional, veering wildly between passionate and pragmatic too hard to explain without baring too much.