Another entry. Just a note, I seldom proof read. I think it kills the moods and whatever type of inspiration you are trying to draw from. These are just thoughts and thoughts can often be cluttered.

Is it a possibility that a man may waste away the hours contemplating time and all its complexities? Are we sure the past truly happened when there is not a soul alive who was alive when the circumstance in a rigid year took place? Sure, there are films and photographs, but they all seem so fixed and unmoving. Films even stuck to the script, no way to interact. I find it odd that moving, breathing flesh that you can see the glint of life in in ethereal eyes, often staring right back at you possess nothing more than a memory. An image on aged, fuzzy film or even on glass. Can they hear a cheer from the audience after a performance has been brilliantly enacted even though that audience is untold years in the future? So fair, and young. Those black and white women who sing, dance, act, pose all apparently dead but to my eyes they still live and breathe. What history of these people are we to entertain? Shall we limit it to the script? Shall we ponder the history books and look beyond the songstress we awe at the chords of in our present moment? Or rather, fix our self in that time, adhere our self to a photograph that adorns places that are often passed by and visited for casual reasons, but visible to that question that will pop up when that noted light glimmers in the eyes of the history books deceased. I have seen many such images, men and women alike, in a number of situations, poses and degrees of decency. All beautiful at the time, well, they must have been for the photograph wasn’t taken for no apparent reason. If I look long enough, perhaps dare an inquiry, forsaking my level of competency of course, I might see movement in those eyes, those digits, those limbs! Life I tell you, it is timeless! Now, I utter some words. Ah, there it is again. Could it be that image, that moving celluloid? Or is it my life, my essence, my aura interacting with those people? It does make me wonder, indeed it does. As I slump over in dismay for I have nothing else to ask or impart on my focus, I breathe, slow the rapid beats of my heart and look away. ‘So is life’ I heard on man once say. So it is indeed. Beauty gone, life bloods run dry, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I ponder my own situation very little for I have seen a photograph of what it will become and I am contented. Here is to life’s pleasures. I raise my glass, take a sip, and focus on the present once more. So is life, yes my friend, so is life indeed.