The Same Damn Thing.

   Fingers on keys, words, writing, I've started a hundred journal entries this way. It breaks the ice. I've certainly been frozen over. It isn't that there aren't stirring down deep, just that they've been left to flow by unseen. The words aren't flowing yet, That, what I just wrote, was crap, metaphor, edited for some unseen reader, sweet poison of the mind.
   Rusty typed out my own thoughts today. There was just a moment, looking, seeing, morning sun poured gentle across the snow, orange cut by blue tree shadow. It was breath, air in, air out, but I was there and for that span alive and awake. I felt a touch of shame, not even being able to say how long since the mood was on me, and see another man typing out my own unspoken thoughts.
   It's the longest night, as dark as one can be. Even the moon will be eclipsed just pasted Midnight. There's a fire burning here in the coffee shop, and I've an easy feeling on my heart. Maybe it's that a good woman loves me, that I might just love her too. Maybe it's just that the World isn't such a bad fit, all on its own.
   Cars are passing in a broken stream along Main. At first it seemed odd, but it really isn't so late. That the sun has been down for two hours simply gives that feeling. Their head lights are sharply clear. All the world past the glass front of the shop is that way, crisp to the eye, almost painfully so. The flags at City Hall are caught in a warm South wind. snow melt glistens in the streetlights.
   The wind will be shift to from the North, and cold air will be coming with it. It will be dangerous to be out by Sunday morning. I've sent messages to Heather, Kyp, and Chris, referring to the mystic, snow, and the lengthening of days. Three conversations that have wandered for years with three very different friends. thoughts caught in whorls of there own momentum, echos of an original thought, that have taken on lives of their own. Is my mind that stale, or is this how others speak. Is it a trap that we all fall into?
   I stumble. It's pitfalls like that which have caged my thoughts for a lifetime. Steve, a simple man from work, comes to mind. He will argue with himself, if he can't find another to offer up his case, as a lawyer would before the bar. The same disputes from his past come up, again and again. Like myself, his thinking is channeled along worn paths. I've fought this for years, but find myself saying the same words, thinking the same thoughts, trapped in a stale repeating conversation. I bore myself. God knows how tedious I must be to others.