It's strange. I seem to have lost interest in vanity, my tolerance of it of late. I survived a long round trip drive through hundreds of miles of desolation today, and the scrub and cacti and sky made me think about how so many seem so certain that they know where they're going in a vastness that could care less.
Here, however, on day eleven merging into the alcoholic blur of an evening that will lead to the twelth of my little wolf's loss, I remember the last time I saw her face and humanity's propensity to worship it's imagination and grandeur refuses to...I guess the word is 'click', though that's not quite right. The mind is not a machine, at least not in a certain sense. I can't replace her in my consciousness as if she were a cog or a melted gasket.
Sadness casts a shadow, yet darkness can provide clarity too.
Before her death we both played the game, I know, yet now...she's dead, I let her down, and while I can forget for awhile (which is fucked up) I understand that evolution is a lot like a casino. It offers a lot for free just so it can trick you into believing you can win against the hand of the house, and then it steals everything to enrich itself.
While waiting for an oil change I came across a fascinating article on Wikipedia about red foxes (the species I believe I used to be a part of before I was either killed in an avalanche or torn to pieces by a pack of hounds, take your pick) who were bred through a succession of dozens of generations into domestication. The researchers selected the most amenable and friendly individuals and lo and behold from the 1980's to present you have 270 or so that act a lot like dogs...some even have floppy ears or curly tails.
The end result of this ramble? I don't actually know. I forgot why I even started it, tomorrow I won't remember I did it, yet the words will be there...like the anchor of a ship with no truth except the waters the bow cuts, in the words of Stephen King as he self described himself in 'On Writing' I'm the 'captain on a voyage to nowhere', though I confess I lack his accomplishment, hubris and gargantuan desk.
Wait...now I remember. The main reason I can never write anything meaningful is because I struggle to find it anywhere beyond alcohol or basic stuff like being there when shit hits it (and I failed to do that for her).
Vanity, yes. That's right, write, and I always seem to get it wrong.