I must admit I find a certain
satisfaction in reflecting on the weekend.
To move at a speed that suits me, and see small things
accomplished. I envy those who find
comfort in large groups and noisy venues, but as I move though this life I think
I am forever shaped by the solitude of my youth, where I was never the core of
the group, but always an observer, invited to be or not be in the mix.
As phantoms, slipping quietly
past in the night, memories of good times will flash on my consciousness. I can close my eyes and return there to see
the brilliance of a day, or the smell of the mountains in springtime. Other times I close my eyes and see a party
on a cold NY winter’s night. I see only
shadows of others, but I vividly recall a group of classmates playing the song
of the day, a little number by the Royal Guardsman, called “Snoopy vs. the Red Baron.” I know I've posted this before, but I do like the song.
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