Baritone Guitar and Cherry Blossoms

My legs are slower, not slow. I am older, not old. But I am a cynic, prophet, columnizer, eulogizer.

I used to walk to the stone bridge over the pond by Sewell Hall. It would be late at night and I would listen to Nick Drake and Elliott Smith, and write horribly cliche journal entries to record the overwhelming emotions of my young little heart. I felt these emotions pressuring my heart like a full balloon. In hindsight, these records needed no cataloging…the emotions seemed so fresh every time and yet a few years later, I realize I wrote the same entry every single time.

It went something like this: I feel full, there are neon lights, the moon is bright, I am infatuated, life is beautifully tragic.

I walked away from these writings and did the real work of a writer, to be prophetic, to proselytize what everyone feels, but not everyone articulates.

The evening is losing its battle to overtake the afternoon, as happens more frequently right after Daylight Savings begins. Today, I listened to Nick Drake and Elliott Smith, and it is perfectly warm outside. Here it is six o’clock and I feel perfectly cliche in recognizing the beautiful tragedy of life as I watch this day fade and cherry blossoms float past my screen window in the late afternoon breeze.