Daily Keemo. 2.13. The Old Russian Is Long Gone And So Is Young Holden

The Old Russian Is Long Gone And So Is Young Holden
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I am too tired to smile right now but that doesn't necessarily mean that I am unhappy. It really is more about staring at the letters on these keys and that they aren't saying a single thing back to me. Between the Tchaikovsky that is in the air and the yellow glow of my desk lamp there is a space in which I am having trouble finding anything meaningful. Not just to pound here on the typer but to put up there above the eyes and under the chest. In the stack of books to my right I can see Holden Caulfield in there running around New York and I have been meaning to give that book another go but I am afraid of finding out that sixteen year old me is much further away from the old man me, than I like to think.

That is the problem with revisiting certain things from your past. You are sure that you have come a long way since then and hope that where you are is better than where you were.

The old Russian is long gone and now Chopin quietly shares two nocturnes for piano and I fall into the spaces between the notes and I can't help but think that this is the place where you will find yourself and in between these notes I forget Holden and forget that stack of books and now the words are coming out and the keys are speaking to me finally and I start to see that it is the space between the keys and the letters and the words, where we will find everything else that we need to move us through this place.