13 February 2026
First, I have to ask myself: Is there actually anything poetic about that poem-like poem there?
Or is it just my ego telling me, hey, you can still write a poem with a beer in hand, like it’s 2010 again?
Look, it’s art. There, you did it. Congrats, kid. You made a page. And that’s something.
What to make of it, what to call it. That’s another matter.
Something does feel right about it to me though, I think, in some loose way, in a way I used to write long ago. It feels like I caught it again one random night back in 2023.
I like the vagueness of it: “Snow, cold, wind…”
I like the pointing-to: ticket stubs, bookshelf, Bozeman.
I like the place-in-time of it, while nodding to the future.
Somehow, the weight of this little poem-like piece is mostly parenthetical. The punch lives inside parenthesis, at the end.
What do I make of that?
And what would my future say of that time and place, the apartment we lived in for seven years, our cluttered office, our lives? That space mostly full of my habits and hobbies and who I think I’ve become?
Ticket stubs. Concerts. Time together. I reckon that’s what I’m speaking to, and what I imagine I’ll remember twenty years down the line.
Today, I’m in the future of that poem. Only slightly ahead, I know, but still, I’m curious enough to consider where I was, and where I am.
These winter nights, they come early. Less sun. More darkness. A season waiting to shift and fill our lives with all the sun summer can give.
But not yet.
“You have to find something to do in the winters,” everyone preached to us when we moved here. “Or you start to go stir crazy, or get sad.”
No problem. I can stay busy. A hobby-hearted Virgo, I can keep busy. I’m good at that.
Writing. Music. Bowling. Time is easy to fill.
But what is missed by so much following of my obsessions? Or is it that obsessions are the point of all this prancing around in place, of all this living?
Maybe obsession isn’t the right word for it. If it is the right word for what I’m doing, then I may not be the rightest version of myself.
Hey, is that right?
This page is right, I know. And I can live with that.
Writing from Here 