I’ve been looking through an old sketchbook lately, preparing to scan the pages. Looking back. Not getting wistful, wanting to go back and relive it, but wondering who the f**k was that unhappy young man.
I wouldn’t change his decisions, well many of them. If I went back it would be a parallel universe of winning lottery numbers. Traveling everywhere back when you didn’t have to worry about getting shot. Going to concerts of bands long defunct now.
Back when I started sneaking out at night to smoke, I often found myself gazing up at the moon. Pondering. The locations changed over the years but the moments feel linked, a chain of moments of reflection. I guess the link is me, uninterrupted, finding the still eye in a universe of change. Seeing the sharp edges I tried hard to find by smoking weed.
I know how the story ends for that young man. He meets a girl in the next sketchbook, and is happy. For a little while at least.