Undone

My mind is a madhouse, I guess.  It does what it wants now, so it seems.  I've been awake since four o'clock this morning.  You've had those nights, surely, when you must get up to shut down.  I've been reading ever since in an effort to focus on something else.  But I've been reading the news, probably the wrong way to go.  Trump and his Regime.  

Last night, though, I felt that if there were gods, they are revealed through certain arts, music being chief among them.  Music is magic, and the other arts strive to achieve its effects.  How, for instance, can a series of notes invoke a mood?  Envious painters have tried to simulate this with color.  There are tableaux which invoke emotions, too.  A still life, a country feast. . . .  I'm not sure mere words have ever reached such heights.  I think the Moderns, with their emphasis on style, came closest.  Hemingway said he studied Cezanne's paintings to learn how to write.  

But music moves the soul.  

I have done tens of thousands things, but I've imagined tens of millions more, and now, sometimes, I wonder why I didn't do them.  It was sloth, of course, but also the constriction of time.  

"If you could do it all over again, what. . . ?"

I'd probably make all the same mistakes.  The further I go, the more I feel or fear fate.  But we live through imagination, too. . . and I've imagined such a great and wonderful life.  I've done much of it, but there is so much more.  

After a fresh dinner (a modified Greek salad) and a snappy wine, I poured a drink and sat back with music as I often do, and I thought, "this is the closest I will get now outside of love."  

Life is not like this, though it should be.  There are an infinite number of things that are left undone.