I’m fighting here, back to the wall, pen in hand, as always, and feeling a bit desperate as I am unable, day after day lately, to catch up on my sleep. Eyes pop open after a couple of hours and nothing I do seems to get me close to a good night’s sleep. I wonder idly why I am writing here, to what end do I post something like this to a website? Maybe it’s because it forces me to focus and write as well as I am able. Damnfino.
What do I have to write? Nothing at the moment, eyes unfocused, legs restless. But I am thinking of a tiny soul winging its way upwards against the immenseness of a million universes, a billion, and wondering about our lives down here. The only answer might be music, and that tightens my throat, thinking about decades of music unplayed.
When my friend’s father was dying of cancer that ravaged his once strong body, my friend gave this supremely practical man a book called “Sing Your Song” or something like that. The thesis of the book was that one needs to sing one’s song, and that not singing it leads to bitterness and cancer. My friend agonized after giving his father the book, which he felt his father might interpret as blaming him for his cancer. Then a call came from his father.
“Mike, I read that book you gave me,” he said, as my friend braced himself. “He’s right. I’m going to sing my song.” A few days later they were on a fishing boat in Florida with their father’s old friend, his father sick as hell, and happy.
There are silver linings everywhere, for those with the life talent to extract them. For the rest of us, shapeless misery that dogs us as we grieve.