Gaude, sciens te semper inexpletus...

The guitar-backed intro sounded nice, but it was the drum machine kicking in that gave me the "wide eyes" moment in Swing & A Miss. The same thing happened a few seconds into Get Well Soon, and I took a moment to sit there and marvel at how each note from every instrument stood apart even as they flowed together, thinking "Man, am I glad I ordered these new earbuds. They sound AMAZING." 

There's plenty of music on my phone I could have used for my first play-test of the new wireless earbuds that arrived today, but the next Oliver Tree song after the last one I'd been listening to seemed as good as any. I didn't need these; I'd justified them to myself through the aggravation I get every time I try using my last pair for phone calls (they were, and still are, incredibly well-reviewed for use in calls, but I found out after throwing my credit card across the counter that most reviewers' ears don't block the microphone ports like mine or all the other annoyed people on Reddit's do. Caveat emptor, I suppose). Justifying the OTHER pair I ordered at the same time was harder to do, and ultimately came down to throwing a #YOLO card down along with the one I use for company expenses. 

Because once all the hand-wringing around needing a hands-free solution that works properly, on-selling or just outright-gifting my hand-me-downs to other folks, tax deductions, and being up-to-date on current products and tech is out of the way, that's what it comes down to. Listening to music is one of my few untainted, guilt-free, not-also-bad-for-me-somehow joys in life and being able to hear it better makes (well, we all know "happy" isn't the right word) that better. 

I ordered both pairs at the same time, in fact these were what I was about to hit the Pay button on when I decided to have a poke around the other stuff that store had on sale and stumbled across the over-ear cans which arrived a month ago. There was a delay on these, I found out days later, but the store was nice enough to split-ship which is why I've been enjoying the hell out of the other ones in the meantime. These things happen when you pre-order the new hotness, but that isn't to say that the wait hasn't been annoying in the way that anything sitting around unfinished annoys me. I came to the realisation a while ago that I'm hugely disinterested in Doing Things, I want them to be Done. 

I go to the cinema, or a concert, and all I can think about when the curtains rise is how I wish it was over. 
Hand me a cake mix and I'll cheerfully get on with mixing things and sticking them in the oven, but by the time it's out, cooled, and I've smeared the icing across the top I'm over it... 
Eating the damn thing is a chore, and I just want it gone. 

I wonder, as I explain this, if that will be what happens if I ever try dating again? Will I be able to enjoy the experience, or will I get to a point and want to scream "Well you're lovely, and this has been nice and all, but can we skip to the messy break-up so I can write a bunch of emo blog-posts about the experience, get over it and get back to being lonely again?" 

It's an easy mistake to make imagining that having this or achieving that will make you happy; when I have a house of my own, or that car I've always dreamed of, date the perfect girl, land that amazing job, or visit some exotic place... I don't want to sound like I'm bragging here, but I've had all of those things multiple times over, and even taking my neurodivergence into account I'm the walking antithesis of "happily ever after". 

I'm not even talking in a "casual nihilism" way, or a Marvin The "This Will All End In Tears" Android sort of way, simply that if you set your expectations on the literal interpretation of a narrative shortcut you deserve every bit of the ennui coming to you.
You can't achieve happiness through acquisition, because there will always be something else to acquire. 
You can't maintain happiness by having, because every thing you have will inform you of all the things you don't. 
You can't keep happy by living thru the things you did, because the person who did that died the instant it happened, and was then reborn as the person who remembered having done it, again, and again, until they were ultimately reborn as you, looking at a sepia-toned photo pinned to the wall of smiling people, one of whom you may once have been, off which is peeling a faded Dymo label which still faintly reads "Happier times..." 

But I just realised that all three Oliver Tree albums have played their way back to where I started and GODDAMN am I enjoying the shit out of listening to them through these mildly-extravagant (although purchased with a considerable discount) earbuds. This guy makes some incredibly catchy music with lyrics that rip your heart out thru the hole they punch in your gut, and man I gotta say, I've enjoyed every time I've listening to them, and I'm enjoying it even more now that I can hear every part of it. He may not be what I need to listen to tomorrow, but this is the soundtrack of my zeitgeist today and I'm grateful to have it. 

You could say that music is like a friend, or a cat who showed up in your carport and wouldn't leave. None of these things make me happy, but I'm glad I have them. 

Because that's the "Eureka!" moment; when you realise that it's not about having what you want because you can never have everything, and even if you could where would you put it? 

It's about wanting what you have; what you worked for, what you tripped over on YouTube, what you were born with, or what you built. Whether or not you want more, or bigger, or faster, or in different colours, is all irrelevant; if what you have doesn't spark joy, why have it at all when you just have to keep carrying it around? Marie Kondo that shit and just maybe you'll jettison your misery along with it, and if you divest yourself of everything and you're still miserable, then perhaps that's just something you are, and nothing to do with what you do or don't have. 

You may or may not be able to do anything about that; I'm still working that one out myself. What I do have is an empty table at the bar behind which I've left a card linked to my corporate expense account. Come have a seat and a drink on me, if you want. 

It would spark some joy for me if you did. 

Staring into space...

I hung up the phone and with robotic motion programmatically poured myself a drink. Looking up from the floor I realised I was still on my feet, my fall arrested by a hand gripping the counter, and I contemplated how out of sync my thoughts were from my memory whilst I stared into space. 

Musical accompaniment: Oliver Tree - All In All 

I picked up my glass and went back out to the balcony where I'd left my laptop, the ever-present view out over Black Mountain, and Beckett-in-exile (because he's declared a fatwa against the Spider Plant which Sandra left me as a housewarming present, and jihad goes both ways). Out here in the darkness of my apartment's Oort cloud I sat, bathed in the backlight of my personal and professional universe, whilst ice cubes died with a pop and a clink in the amber warmth enclosed by titanium-crystal glass. 

Conceding the battle against nihilism, I'd just ordered pizza delivery when the message came in: 

I dialled Pete's number as I went down the lift to take collection, and shoved what I received into the oven to keep it warm. By the time we hung up it had grown tepid, but that detracted nothing from the flavour; mass-produced pizzas are a dish best-served cold, furthermore it masks the taste of ashes when one finds themselves dining on them. 

My hand went from gripping the banister to the bench as I orbited in and out of the double-glazed door demarking the frigid outer-system and the overly-warm temperate zone nearer the fridge. These conversations have been happening more and more often; dirty snowballs shedding mass every time he chances his luck in hell in an attempt to leave a mark before he burns out and fades away. 

Staring out into the empty grey of an overcast sky the colour of a television tuned to a dying business-plan, I went looking for words to describe the texture and taste of the moment I had to tell my once-valued-client-now-dear-friend that he needed to take a knife to the throat of his dream.

 They were hard to find; the fault is, as always, my own. 

The 109th Rule of Acquisition dictates that "Dignity and an empty sack is worth the sack," but we forget sometimes that 'value' is subjective; all in all I've come to realise that it's what the client wants that's most important. If the Emperor can proudly parade down the promenade in the proverbial, perhaps we've a paradoxical exchange rate vis a vis pride? 

Gripping the handle of my balcony door for the penultimate time that evening I realised that the question "Is this the hill you want to die on?" is only 'rhetorical' when you're young. You don't perceive that you've passed perihelion until you've presented your pate to the prosecutor's proboscis, proclaiming: 
"Come at me bro!" 

I might be beyond help, but somewhere along the line I've dedicated my life to securing the hill upon which shines a light to guide those who want to help even though they feel helpless. I might not be able to do it for everyone, or even tell them how, but I want every one of my fellow travellers to be able to look up from the dark and empty places they must walk and know that it can be done. 

Thinking about the loneliness I could see in Pete's voice, white-knuckles gripping the wheel waiting for the kick from the wind he so desperately needs to shake his sails, I let go of the rail and went to stoke the beacon's fire. Whether it serves as a star to steer by, or a light on the horizon when his dreams fade to grey, the warmth of knowing he's not alone is the least I can give him.