Outside: The Sun peeps through the window panes.
Inside: I see a world moving past while I recall the guidelines to stay in place.
Outside: Looks so inviting. I long to walk the lanes, skip the potholes, feel the breeze.
Inside: My muscles stopped aching days ago. My mind is wandering in a fog. My patience is snapping at its last threads.
Outside: Birds chirp, people come and go.
Inside: My treks are sometimes on YouTube. At other times, I take an extra dimensional form and wander the neighborhood unseen by human and animal eyes. I, then, count another day.
One in June
Solitary like a dune.
Scheduled like a jab.
In the raucous throes of now’s pandemic.
A little time away
A few moments: to count a day.
My writing hand gnarly,
Creaks this to life…
The sky was still dripping.
The quiet fall of drops soaked the hair out of hat.
One moment surprised.
Next moment imagining the sun smiling the clouds away.
The days have been sweltering lately. In the silence of night. I strain my ears.
Most days, the chirping, croaking, laughing sneaks over the wall.
Some days, the wind’s whistle whispers over the fence and its digits walk on the window panes.
Then the rain silently falls.
So I go to this place. I like the service. I particularly like who I think I am while there.
For fifteen to twenty five minutes, in that space, I imagine many things. Have many a thought. Step away from the rails.
Down two flights and on the pavement, change stays the same. What was magical twelve feet away is now worn. The glaze of context is gone.
I look away.
It’s like my mind is buffering.
It’s like another mind is pushing the buttons.
It’s remembering all I have forgotten to remember at the worst possible moment.
I leap out of naps. I leap out of dreams. I must have fallen out with reality!
Another nap should fix this.
From quite the absence. Cobwebbed idea room, dusty writing space and overcast ceiling.
To the blank page. To sail the sea of white with the compass of imagination.
Many days late, not a day too soon.
Weeks into the year.
I looked at a diary and today is the start of the ninth.
I looked at my phone and today is the start of the eighth.
Eighth week it is.
…in the distance.
After hours of sticky heat and a morning of hill covering mist.
I heard thunder. I listened for rain. The air grew cool. The night became silent.
The heat returned.
You can almost hear the rush of air before the splatter hits your ears. You can see metallic paint with white streaks, walls with white and green splotches.
Once in a while, you can even see a group of friends furiously wipe down the uniform of one of their own.
On the side of the road. With white splotches on the tarmac beneath them.