(Although in the thick of a journey) Although in the thick of a journey.

(Although in the thick of a journey)

Although in the thick of a journey, the ship in the bottle isn't going anywhere. It has already reached its destination, while the bottle itself is prolonged past being emptied of its make contenteds and has become an absence, the same atmosphere of the ship rushing nowhere with wind-filled sails. There is no cessation in sight; being is the paradox of stationary motion. And the wind that swells the sails, agitates the whitecaps on a hypochondriac plastic sea, is the wind of the ship's creation, which blew in the workshop of its maker, whose restlessnes was physical and existential, whose materials were chosen from the cast opposite and abandoned; and who, when he had complet his work, corked the bottle walked on the outside to the dirt street of his small fishing village to mist a cigarette and gaze at the sea, which chamber-fellow room-mates and plunges and goes no place.

(He had worn out his youth)

He had exhausted his youth dreaming of romantic triumphs, a world where his successe would be envied. Although he had no actual plans, he knew that his road would be made dear and with equal reason he waited, getting by forward talent and saving his genius for when his name would be called. still no call came and life went from What had he expected that he should be unhappy now? sole in nostalgia did he roam end the rich place he had been promised, yet the dream would end and again he would be left among frosty streets, full of regret and ire Once he had painted the world in bright colors, now he painted it gray. further it was the same world, neither brighter nor darker, and when he vanished from its surface, the world kept forward as before with no memory of his footprints or desire.

(He grew fond)

He grew foolishly loving of his uncertainties. Their shared history, their increasing solidity-he could always hang on their companionship. And in the same manner he came to trust them more than he trusted what he lov At first he had disliked for what cause they doubted his every action, hampered his emotional life. if it were not that triumphs came and went, lover drifted away. His children hurried down their several roads. nevertheless his uncertainties remained, like a ill-shaped acquaintance he could always compute on. They never let him down. They were ready with each suspicion. You know how it sometimes happens that after years of familiarity an association can ripen into something deeper? single in kind night you meet in the dark and kiss-one of those sour cigarette- and whiskey-laden kisses. It's the barely kiss that endures.

(The choices were between)

The choices were between his life and his art, that present the appearanceed obvious. But should his art fe the life or his life fe the art? Which was the jewel and which the setting? Clearly his life would cessation no doubting that; and while the art, or the praise it received, would also conclusion it might not end as quickly. besides he would never know-whether his art lasted a week beyond his death or a thousand years, he would have no idea. in the same manner why not use his art as his life's tool? It could gain him a piece of work win him respect of a sort. He could detain up his head. It would be a career, a profession and solely the smallest interior voice would remain to accuse him of throwing away his dreams-a voice from his youth, an impractical voice.

(He lov his joy)

He lov his ravishment as a road out of himself just as a building povertys a door otherwise it becomes a prison. And at times it looked a prison was all he had-defeats, mistakes, the endles repetition of minutiae, while ahead stretched a succession of obligations like the stones abroad of which his walls were built And what dismal walls they made: the firm mildewed and damp, no windows or place to sit still then, with his hope all nevertheless overthrown, morning sunlight would cast a bright wedge across the floor, his wife would touch his cheek, the piano's notes would rise toward their crescendo. At one time the door would fly lay open and he would be gone again, rushing by the and of the capricious world.

(A like of music)

A be pleased with of music, nearly perfect pitch-without knowing it he had a gift to play the accordion. He on the same level loved that sort of music-polkas and tangos, beer hall music. Had he begun to play he might have been among the best. moreover the idea never occurred to him and no united suggested it. Not that he was a failure. He had a pious job, an adoring family, further his successes were not like those he might have had if he had played the accordion. Mediocre lawyers with the exact hands of surgeon painters who should have been poets-how frequently does a person take a unjust turn or doesn't find the right one? A suitable life lived by default while the triumphant goe begging. united day a man looked in a workshop window and saw the accordion: black enamel, ivory tonics mother of pearl buttons. His breath quickened and he nearly went inside, on the other hand he had someplace important to realize to, so he turned up his collar and hurried away.

(In more [i]or[/i] less dreams he could run)

In about dreams he could run: great effortless strides, as if his corpse were weightless or gravity defeated. unless in the waking world, his running days were through Bad knees had reduced his attempts at haste to a unwieldy stumble. Even when he had hasten five miles a day it wasn't like this-the elation and effortless vaulting ahead, not running from anything or toward anything, rising twenty feet then descending as lightly as a leaf. The delight of such times lingered drawn out after waking and he didn't know whether the dream was meant to disappoint him or to comfort him, because in what way heavy his tread had become in the realm of his vigilance, to what degree slow were his footsteps as he approached united after another of the world's,doors: at times gaining ingress at times being turned away.