Are you happy? Do you smile? What is the happiness of the very poor? What about those that live in the grey, frozen wasteland without enough to eat? There are places on the earth where there are no babies, no flowers, no puppies. There are places where the coffee is always cold and the drinking water is always warm. Can a man look happily from the bars of his cell every day for the rest of his life? Is there a joy in wasting away? Is there a song for dying?
That part of me that slices ahead into the present, tossing nerve impulses of information into the past. That part of me that doesn't know what hit it. The hidden "sum" that I am, the one that feeds the "cogito" that I know, always sings for joy. It sings for the joy of being, the joy of not having to understand. It makes a happy noise that it never hears, voicing words it does not know. It is a silly mote pushing its way into a serious world, oblivious and excited just to keep moving.
Sometimes I sing along. Sometimes we all do.
Hello, friends. Sing a song for me.
Later. Love.
