The Endless Chase Begins Anew

Stones taught me to fly, love taught me to lie
And life, taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall, when you float like a cannonball
-Damien Rice

Due to extenuating circumstances, the second installment of the Bonhoeffer post will be delayed. Perhaps a day or two. Perhaps indefinitely. Ah, the beauty of the Daily Rice; seeing that I’m the researcher, writer, editor, photographer, and indeed publisher, autonomy comes in its purest form. Autonomy permits laziness.

No, no. Things are hard right now in the girl department. Story of my life, right? If the relationship is no good I usually mess things up more. If the relationship is good, great even, I make sure to mess it up. Fellow Irishman Oscar Wilde, in all his aphorism wisdom, once said “Each man kills the thing he loves.” That just tortures me.

It’s safe to say the worst thing one can possibly do when feeling low is capriciously publish mediocre prose. Despite the ephemeral psuedo-catharsis it might deceivingly offer, the sun also rises, and alas, morning comes, the emotional space freed up the night before is quickly filled by an inflow of regret. Oh but what the hell? I pride myself in working with regret and angst the way a painter works in clays or oils. Melancholic brooding is my true medium.


The Color of Far Away Love
-By an Idiotic, Twenty Something Insomniac

The moon pulls farther away, reaching zenith, reminding us of how small we are. Quietly a breeze slides through the night air, tracing across the corners of my face. The tender caress would go unnoticed, like a strangers glance, if not for the small rip it etches upon my heart. Unfailingly, the cold reminds me of the sadness.

And as the solemn factory lights bleed into moonshine the fracture opens, cracks, fragments, and splinters down my arms and legs leaving me paralyzed beneath my own desires. My longings to say how I really feel; to act unencumbered by fear of consequence; to let my heart win the battle; indeed, to live. It’s just in my bones to run towards heartache, and while it’s no Greek tragedy, my mind turns to broken heroes.

Unlike Atlas, who’s perpetually pinned beneath the weight of the world, I’m struck immobile by the possibility of the night; the freedom I deny can be seen with every exhale, my breath heavier than the cold air for a fleeting second. The contrast becomes clear, coffee black and egg white. But it bleeds! It runs together, forming softer tones, a ubiquitous gray becomes the color of far away love.

Sometimes when you’re happiest you become most aware of your own sadness; your safety collides into utter vulnerability; laughter swallowed by the quiet.

Pulling her close I feel so damn far away, and my mind is not hers to know. These thoughts, this confession, this prelude to understanding is lost. Reluctantly, the moon begins to drop, in vain chasing some far away sun it will never catch. The endless chase begins anew.