until you know

Until you know, understanding is as inconsequential, and far less frequented upon, as a two dollar bill. Simon had a ball that bounced well, multiplying the force which he induced. It was a solid ball, but not so hard that it hurt if he pelted you with it, as he enjoyed doing on occassion- not because he was mean, but, as he put it, he "liked to keep you on your toes." Neither the ground, nor the sky, could grasp that shaded sphere the way he did, nor did they enjoy its beautiful sophistication and grandeur the way he did, however, they were capable of giving it demensions his hands could not, and this is why I say he bounced it on its way. Giving it every chance to see the ground, the grass, the sky, the tree, the sun, the rain, and a passerby's temporary pain. That ball caught glances, and peers, frowns, and tears once when he had to take it back from a small child. Until you know, understanding is a left handed turn into a brick wall that doesn't move or acknowledge your existence. Simon also had a bucket he tended to leave at home, in a dark corner of his closet behind a bag and next to some shoes he had outgrown. He kept it empty always, thus not having to debate the merits of it being half full or half empty. When he brought it out he would hold it for a moment, staring into its slightly narowing space and into the bottom. It had finality and he seemed to take comfort in that notion, and in filling it up with water from the tap so that he could dump it back out again and place it in the same spot behind the bag and next to the shoes. until you know, understanding is an effort in futility. Simon, had a ball and a bucket, they were his two favorite things.

Same as it ever was.

I come here less frequently than I should like, but I suppose that I can attribute that to the static nature of my life. Same as it ever was. The only thing that changes from one day to the next seems to be the date, the different lines and farthering distance we travel. I keep few friends, some acquaintances, but rarely indulge in trusting another person, though it seems to be becoming fashionable again- to trust.
It could be said that if you wish to further your life, to take another step and dig yourself out of mire, you should let me befriend you, for as I have learned I maintain a magical quality that allows people to become greater than this city, to find what they love or what makes them happy, and then seek it elsewhere. Make no mistake, I do not begrudge these people for leaving. I suppose I could leave, but what in this world could make a man, so discontent, fly past contentment in a yellow ray happiness? or waggle in pale blue and dark green to grow thick roots and leaves and bask simply under a burning sun... caring not about the heat of summer or the snows of winter?
I should look to the positive, but alas I have no will, no desire, to seek out such things on a warm, thick night when even the stars have trouble seeing; have trouble communicating the cold solitude and endless ocean of black choking eternal night where each must be its own light, its own day, its own ray of hope- for who runs to them for hugs and kisses? no, no, it is only wishes they are asked to grant, like a genie confined to a lamp but with less, more distant contact. (sigh)