Jason (jcreed) wrote,

Started walking home this evening around 2300, still a little drunk on E minor and B-seven, and little chromatic melodic ornaments, and that slow, wailing half-bluegrassy half-gut-bucket blues sort of playing. The weather outside is unspeakable. I can not drink up these evenings enough to sate me. The air, like a perfect, welcoming voice being neither too loud nor too soft, neither warms nor cools my skin. It is just there. It touches me, it blows past me, it sings slowly by, back and forth, sky-ocean waves of air. It isn't even wind, it's breathing, a slow, relaxed, sleepy giant's-yawn. I feel as if I don't need to breathe myself, as if some unnameable thing is breathing for me. It stops now, (I have to struggle not to say she stops, so strong the urge to anthropomorphize) and the new stillness is jarring yet beautiful. No cars pass me for some time as I walk up Beeler.

It's this stillness that I find myself craving now and then. The peace of streetlit night on the eyes. Quiet so dense the trees themselves shut up in sympathy, ashamed to have their whispered gossip overheard. The feeling of standing still in the middle of a walk to just stretch and be and stand and listen, and be without goal, without destination for a second. I consider whether this still-smiling sadness I feel is just plain old blunt loneliness again. No. No, it really isn't. Not quite just that. I don't want someone on this walk beside me. I don't want a conversation to sputter and half-start. I don't want pressured silence. Not right now. I don't want company in the motion of things, not now. I want someone to be still with. At least that is the thought that comes to me right now. I want company in my rest, in stillness, in unobtrusive warmth, in sleep, in contact, at the end of the trip, waiting as I wait for the rhythm to come to a period rest, waiting for the changes to hit the turnaround once more.

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