The man
Paces birskly back and forth
Between the coffee shop and the pharmacy
Anxiously anticipating the exiting patrons
He takes three steps
From the left to the right
Looking through the window panes
Waiting on anyone to hold the door for
Politely asking all of them for change.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
30
This was not the anticipated feeling. That a distance could separate me from myself, this is not something I expected. Still, I see what I am. I look from the many angles, digital and analog, the practical, the technical. I see what I am. There is a mirror which daily acknowledges and ignores my most important strengths and weakest shortcomings.
I cannot ignore the clock of my own reflection. Such a reflection will not lie to you. That image is the only real token of time. A second, in the minute, counting a week, which will comprise the years... and then we ask, "Oh, where has the time gone."
This was not the anticipated feeling. That I could be aware of all the shortcomings. The theoreticals that are bantered amongst the most diligent academics. I know only what I know. But I hear the other tid bits. I hear some words from my far gone potential. An echo of a time that screamed an unmistakable logic to me, that is what pierces the sides of my skull this time. But they are distinct and I do hear them... yes, they sound like they are making sense.
This was not the anticipated feeling, that I would lecture anyone. I do not have that right. I do not have the experience. Yet, amidst logistical loopholes, mired in the everyday - in places where waking and sleeping are the only two alarms on both sides of the day - I do question. A constant curiosity. In contrast my friends ask me, "What did you figure out?"... or, "What did you learn?"...ultimately, "What is your point?"...
This was not the anticipated feeling. But I cannot repeat that. I cannot reiterate such precision in good conscience. To plagerize on perfection implicates pretention. Such alliteration assumes a certain similarity. But the point... that is the point... what is the point... if there is one... and on and on. A clever cycle of neverending perplexion... ending with... some... elipse...
This was not the anticipated feeling. But the feeling stays anyway. There was a time when a certain sensation might attune itself personal biorythyms or ecstasies. So this time no longer exists. This was not the anticipated feeling. That a distance could separate me from myself, this is not something I expected. The unexpected continues to be the call of the day.
This was not the anticipated feeling, me longing for a specific remedy. A prescription, an attestation, any reaction. But there is none. Maybe some conclusion makes sense, but ultimately a conclusion, only acknowledges a settlement. A settlement supposes an understanding. This is something I cannot suppose.
I cannot ignore the clock of my own reflection. Such a reflection will not lie to you. That image is the only real token of time. A second, in the minute, counting a week, which will comprise the years... and then we ask, "Oh, where has the time gone."
This was not the anticipated feeling. That I could be aware of all the shortcomings. The theoreticals that are bantered amongst the most diligent academics. I know only what I know. But I hear the other tid bits. I hear some words from my far gone potential. An echo of a time that screamed an unmistakable logic to me, that is what pierces the sides of my skull this time. But they are distinct and I do hear them... yes, they sound like they are making sense.
This was not the anticipated feeling, that I would lecture anyone. I do not have that right. I do not have the experience. Yet, amidst logistical loopholes, mired in the everyday - in places where waking and sleeping are the only two alarms on both sides of the day - I do question. A constant curiosity. In contrast my friends ask me, "What did you figure out?"... or, "What did you learn?"...ultimately, "What is your point?"...
This was not the anticipated feeling. But I cannot repeat that. I cannot reiterate such precision in good conscience. To plagerize on perfection implicates pretention. Such alliteration assumes a certain similarity. But the point... that is the point... what is the point... if there is one... and on and on. A clever cycle of neverending perplexion... ending with... some... elipse...
This was not the anticipated feeling. But the feeling stays anyway. There was a time when a certain sensation might attune itself personal biorythyms or ecstasies. So this time no longer exists. This was not the anticipated feeling. That a distance could separate me from myself, this is not something I expected. The unexpected continues to be the call of the day.
This was not the anticipated feeling, me longing for a specific remedy. A prescription, an attestation, any reaction. But there is none. Maybe some conclusion makes sense, but ultimately a conclusion, only acknowledges a settlement. A settlement supposes an understanding. This is something I cannot suppose.
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