Florentine Waltz: 4th Movement

Tonight, I cried for the beauty of life. There I adjourned my new-found friends, friends that I gained through association. A pack of dueling, alternating, swinging folks; men picking up the dirt as they walked. They swept the streets with cheer, reverie, joy in the art of being. This art they brought on coattails, carrying the scent of marijuana and alcohol. The combination of all, this trailing cloud of jovial musk, camaraderie, fraternity. I swam in the belly of it. I picked up the bits that fell from the summit.

And a gorgeous summit it was. I took what I could by sheer physicality and image. I did not return what was given me. I pushed, or reciprocated when my chances felt slim. This I did for the not so valorous reason as following, but for the necessary effect such behavior lays on the dichotomy of individualism and communality. I kept myself to myself, as I’ve done for a long amount of time. They took me in as one of their own, but I took a backseat to my potential. This regression or devolution had nothing to do with my own, true thoughts and behaviors, but I was closer than usual.

It is difficult to cross the gap in this respect, the space between one’s perceived self and one’s true self. It is an asymptotic graph, searching for this equilibrium. If it can be attained, I think I might be close. The lack of women does not deter me; they are human, and so cannot grasp the divine. And the divine is my goal. End of story.

But, there is an addendum. Occasionally my level stock of judgment fails me, but others crop up in its place.

Tonight, I cried for the beauty of life.

My greatest dreams of assistance were answered. Rather, attained. I helped a young French couple on the road back home. I could not do much without tools and replacements part, but still my recent endeavors in the realm of electronics and mechanics has been rewarded. I looked and searched through the amalgam of parts of the engine. I identified a possible problem. They hit a taxi, and the car would not start. I fiddled, fixed, twisted, prodded, illuminated, and detached, reattached. The connections were all proper, but a lack of start (and I did not attribute it to the battery, for the start sounded healthy, a spark plug was to blame.) Having naught tools, nor replacement parts, there was not much to do. I bid them adieu, and walked back home. Nonetheless, the mere opportunity to help was enough. It inspires confidence that others might ask for your assistance in something requiring knowledge.

This walk back, I cried. I had found a place, two places where I belonged. In one night. The beauty was staggering. The force smiled upon me. I have no more words for it.