this world gives me options. and i choose, path by path by path, to walk slow, run fast. find nothing. find everything. find time moving in a straight line as days slip by weeks slip by months, and so here i am. but, i know it curves, i know there are answers in the breeze that passes by me as i sit on a stool at a bench in the windowsill of this cafe by the water’s edge and write and think and breathe unsteadily. i’ve lost touch and i’m sleeping through my life with tired eyes and a weary mind.
i think i think too much.
the sun is setting. it’s the hottest part of the day so far. and the water ebbs and flows in front of my eyes as birds glide and people in cars pass by as mountains sit in silhouette on the horizon in the very distance, looking very much like a painting. and but for how it looks, i take nothing from it.
there’s jazz on the radio. i tap my toes. i drink green tea. this bench is too high and i scratch my wrists gently on the edge of my computer as i type. i would say it feels kinda nice [because that sounds kinda right] but it doesn’t. it’s uncomfortable, but i don’t move an inch.
i sit and sense the heat of this sunset on my arm and my face and the scratching of my wrists from all this nonsense writing and the beating of my heart and emptiness of my tummy.
and i try to feel.