Uncertainty.

When I played the piano it was strange. A feeling that I had been harboring for a long time became true to life: the music in my head has stretched itself beyond my own abilities. For quite some time now I have been feeling this, but it was not until last night that it became absolutely, blatantly apparent. After I had exhausted my attempts I found myself lying down on the Hump, my waterproof bag and raincoat beneath me, staring up at the eerie orange clouds and the depthless night sky that lay beyond them. It was no longer raining, but everything was wet, and so was I.

I've wracked my brain for the last several days, trying put a finger on it. I'm not quite sure what, of course. But there's just something not right. I've begun to wonder at my being here - if it's really where I'm supposed to be or not. Strange, I know, as I have always been the one to have the life philosophy that wherever you are is where you're supposed to be. I've been touting that one along with me for some three years and I'm wondering if I was wrong. But it doesn't make sense if it's not right, and so I hold onto it anyways. After all, I learn something new in every situation, no matter how bad, that I get myself into. And every new scar makes the skin stronger. Every new impact serves only to harden the bones.

Tonight I'm sitting the security desk at Carlson Tower. It's a long night, but I'll get paid for it. In the meantime, I watching/listening to "The Secret Garden" on youtube. It's a good movie for how I've felt lately.

Something I stumbled upon

Check this out. I watched these guys' first video blog entry on youtube this morning - it was a side link and, curious, I clicked it. I'm amazed. And curious. I think I might try to keep up with these fellows and see what they're up to and how.

Still Fighting It

Currently listening to: Still Fighting It, Ben Folds.

This song always makes me nostalgic for something, but I'm never quite sure what. Perhaps it's that memory of my first car, that rusty old 1987 Chevrolet Celebrity station wagon I so affectionately called Simba. That memory where I was driving down Airline Hwy, both front windows hand-rolled down, the cool breeze and warm, decomposing autumn air working their way through and around, my midback-length hair billowing in the current, my left hand following the imaginary curves of a surf in the wind, the blind stereo turned up, and this song calling out the windows as I drove past trees alive with color and roads so familiar to me on my way towards home.

Perhaps that's it.