Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

It’s something I keep replaying over and over and over to the point that I can no longer differentiate between the pantomime and the reality. We exist in a vacuum of my creation. Because it’s safer this way, right? And at some point you just have to let yourself be happy. But the pieces don’t fit while you’re blindfolded by your own reluctance. And I swear that I know that the words are spilling from my mouth, but I’d rather not be talking. There are much better uses of our lips at the moment.

The journey to here is potholed and winding. And the map flew out the window three or so miles back. Traversing without aim has never been a problem before. But it’s kept simple. It’s kept simple.

On the news, Kobe Bryant died alongside his daughter and seven others. Helicopter crash. Twitter reminds us of his sins despite his grieving family. See this a lot whenever a problematic person dies. It doesn’t matter what empire they built on the backs of others, because this time isn’t about them. Problematic people have families, loved ones. People who are mourning their passing. Death doesn’t saint them, erase their transgressions. But airing their laundry after their death doesn’t make you woke. Just a condescending piece of human garbage trying to turn a family’s tragedy into something about you.

Clarence Darrow: All men have an emotion to kill; when they strongly dislike some one they involuntarily wish he was dead. I have never killed any one, but I have read some obituary notices with great satisfaction.

Partly, these days, I think about the man who took the lives of the people I love. We were so close to the trial’s beginning that it’s just a shame that the rug has been pulled out from under our feet again. Postponed a week due to no available courtrooms. If the system isn’t fucked… well, there’s nothing more to say to that.

Ernest Hemingway: I had always expected to become devout. All my family died very devout. But somehow it does not come. Maybe it’s too late. Perhaps I have outlived my religious feeling.

At times, it felt like our friendship was orchestrated by someone else. That is not to say I’m not grateful for it. Had this been a sitcom, movie, or book it would be obvious that someone sat back and watched this unfurl. The moment I sat in that passenger seat that night. The moment it was suggested. It was out of my hands.

One gonna hold my memories another gonna close the door
One gonna leave me restless another wanting more
You're gonna keep my soul it was yours to have long ago

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