What's to May?

Thoughts on Piazzolla: Spring

Spring is young. It gets caught up in its own feelings. 

It feels, untuned, and without ear, merely following the rhythm to an uncharted location. Following where the roads takes it, for the sheer fuck of it.

It's full of energy, that's burned up by a good powerful poem, but is delusional enough, drunk enough on youth, to use the awakening as a transition into another state of equal delusion. Different, is as close as it gets to awakening. I envy Spring, in its hopeful nihilism, in its violent shamelessness. 

It's cocky and impulsive, but when it doesn't have an audience; it usually takes a couple of minutes to catch up to itself, and see through the delusion. 

It takes it time to feel. It feels by default. It feels because it lives, it lives because it feels; it knows no other way to live. 

It makes mistakes, bold and unattended, albeit sheltered and inexperienced. It's drunk without stimulus or matter. It is living matter, in volatile state. A volcano, without shame. 

It grieves without grieving, it creates beauty by destruction, that doesn't destroy. It is infinite, in wearing a cape, stored from last halloween and brought out on April 3rd at 2pm in a fit of disbelief. It is Schrodinger's cat, it is life. Breaking life and reassembling it on a quite afternoon, for no reason, for all reason - unknowing - in violent passion. 

A force of nature, without force. Tender in its violence, vulnerble in its ferocity, and young in its closure. Closure without Reason. Self-centered closure, reached only by need, just as it started. 

It is the beauty of unadulterated force; in its contradiction, in its confidence, in its reason, that has gone mad and lost its path from reason.

Completely independent, completely crazy, and completely destructive, with 0 collateral damage. With 0 actual damage. A cold war, made cold by its unrequited, unnatural nature. Made cold by not finding a worthy opponent. Made cold by not finding a willing opponent. Made cold by not finding an opponent. 

Spring is young, in its readiness. Readiness for battle, that isn't there. Readiness for love, that doesn't exist. Readiness for heartbreak, that's been rendered obsolete by time, convenience and crippling civilization. Readiness for everything, rendered useless - and impotent - by time. Readiness that grieves itself, and only itself, in its joy for everything that's no longer needed by time. Readiness, that isn't needed. A futile, but beautifully powerful, existence. 

Does it know? It doesn't. It's still too young. 

Thoughts on Piazzolla: Summer

Summer takes its time. It thinks it's older. It's certainly taken up enough time. It's neurotic enough. It's confused enough, when it's not looking. When it lets its guard down, traces of spring seep in. In its intensity, it becomes too much of spring to be anything but Summer. Then it catches up on itself, and grieves knowingly. A new feeling; pity. Self-consciousness. Where, on the timeline of living things, did it pick up this terrible habit? It grieves its youth, by being young and not knowing. It grieves its youth, instantly, wasting more of it. 

Because it's young, it enjoys the walk. A walk filled with grief. A walk, heavy with feeling. Feeling, unknown to the old and knowing. A walk that's heavy. It now knows anger, but doesn't know how to contain it effectively. It lets it out in short bursts that are equally young - if not younger - than how it started out. It grieves that too, ironically. 

Then it realizes what it's done.

Summer is bipolar. It rejects is extremity with fashion, leftover from olden times and sheer habit. It talks too much to drown itself out. It doesn't know what it's capable of, because it's too busy grieving what it used to be, and reacting to how it got there in the first place. It thinks it's trying to understand, but it's just lashing out. Like a 19 year old, that just got a license and thinks it needs to use it for something for it matter. Like a 19 year old, that thinks it needs to use something for it to matter. Like a 19 year old, that cannot accept how futile life is, and is still trying to trace the reasoning of adults, along alice lines and rabbit roads that don't exist. It's too young to know that adults don't know what they're doing. It's too young to know that adults are adults because they see no reason; and still wake up the next day. It's still too young to know how to live without reason, or why to live without reason. It's too young to be old, and it still doesn't know it. It's too old to know it, but not old enough.

And somewhere down there, it knows it's not old enough. It knows that's the real reason it's grieving, but it's too young to know it loudly, and the sadness comes out happy, and lively, and full of hope. 

Hope of understanding the past, which isn't true. Hope of knowing what to do, which it doesn't. Hope of seeing, which it's too busy feeling to see for what it is. Hope of feeling like it used to, which it grieves too much to realize that it is. Hope of feeling, which it grieves, not knowing that it's still capable. 

Hope. Distraught hope, fueled by the confusion of youth, one that thinks it's too old too hope, and doesn't know it's distraught. 

After all, it's still young enough to get carried away, but is old enough to be exhausted by it. Old enough to be hurt by it. Old enough to not notice how young it is, unless it's in retrospect. 

It still has fight, and doesn't know what it's for. It's too old.

Thoughts on Piazzolla: Fall

It's now had enough time to think, and grow a little older. It's had enough time to know better, in the ways of living, but not in the reason. In the course of life, it forgot that was the real reason. It's had enough time to take its time to know the reason, and sound like it, without knowing.

But on lonely nights, it still gets hit by bouts of sadness. Existential sadness, without reason. Targeted sadness that has lost aim. Scheduled sadness, that forgot why it made an appointment in the first place. Sadness, for the sheer fuck of it. Without reason, with all the reason in the world. 

Enjoyable sadness; filling time, making time, the only way it knows how. 

It doesn't know why it's here, but it is anyway, and it's too old too question it, but it's young enough to get angry about it. Repetitively, ferociously, without apparent reason, like an old lost battle being replayed in a retired general's head, only the in the general's head, he's still at war. He's at war, but gets lost trying to get to the cupboard. He's at war, but he's forgotten why he's fighting at all. 

Too old to question itself, even in its incessant grief. Even in its constant torture, and elaborate pain. Tequila for consciousness, and a machete wielding mad scientist for a heart, one that's forgotten why it started dissecting.

Young enough to keep up the fight. Old enough to forget why he started fighting in the first place. 

Young enough to fight anyway. 

Young enough to continue fighting, long after he's forgotten the reason, long after he's forgotten he was after a reason, and long after he's forgotten he's kept fighting to remember that reason.

Long enough. 

An ode to time. An ode to life, that can't recognize itself, but remembers it shouldn't be ashamed to feel it, even if it doesn't remember the reason.

An ode to life in anger, anger that doesn't stop itself. In its old age, it's not old enough, just yet. 

An ode to the fall, and its real glory. 

An ode to the fall of a good life; remembered, forgotten, and still remembered, on a visceral level. One that's too important to need reason. One that deserves being angry about, without shame, or the shame of reason.

Thoughts on Piazzolla: Winter

It's now old enough to take its time. It's now old enough not to question why it takes it time, or to judge itself when it slips. It still questions, maniacally. It's already had its fall from glory, it's known how glorious it was, and it's confident that it doesn't need glory, but grieves it all the same, and enjoys it all the same. It's old with reason - long forgotten, but never let go. Reason enough, it thinks, in its existential torture. 

It remembers the anger, but now the anger is enjoyable. It has aged enough to realize the beauty of temporal states - ones without aim. It's old enough to relive, without the joy of living taken away. It now knows the beauty of aimlessness, and how they can't be avoided, no matter how old you get. Especially because of how old you get. It takes pleasure in reliving; not because of defeat, but because of ultimate understanding of the uselessness and aimlessness of life, and the realization that it's found its true and only meaning in wasting its life trying to react to it, rather than understand it. 

It's now old enough to know that's the only way to live, without really knowing it. Knowing is no longer the aim. 

It sings its last victory, in the face of imaginary enemies, with equal vigour and happiness. It exaggerates its wins, and their fluency - all the while grieving a perfectly well wasted life. A perfectly well felt life. A perfectly well lived life.

It gives itself space to have a tantrum, one that's quiet, and tender. One that asks for the sake of asking, asks for the sake of feeling, completely and utterly, and never asking for the sake of knowing. 

Ageing, in its original form. Ageing, for its original reason. Living for its only reason. 

Ageing, that doesn't affect wellness, but improves it. Ageing, that doesn't affect dexterity, but improves it. Ageing, that doesn't affect reason, but annuls it. Ageing, that fulfills. 

It knows its time has come, a long time ago, and its sings itself to sleep, in its own time, and at its own uninterrupted pace. 

It has lived, unjudged, and with complete laughable feeling.

It has lived, without reason. 

It has lived, with all reason. 

It has lived, for a reason. 

It has lived, for the only reason known to man, since the dawn of time, since man knew life for what it is, and never really knew what it was for. It has lived, and accepted the futility.

It has lived.