an attempt to be in a moment in a moment that is passing at present in the present in an instant not wasting time not wasting now. an attempt to be in a moment in a moment becoming past remaining concentrating on present actions present rest. at attempt to be in a moment but thought fluttering to the future to later just some hours just some point later today. an attempt to be in a moment but i am waiting to answer a text i am waiting to have a meeting i am waiting to get more work i am waiting to have something to do in the present other than write about an attempt to be in a moment because in this moment i am not focused on anything other than my attempt at being in this moment and in a way that is being in a metamoment which is kind of sort of maybe worse than not being active in a moment because it is actively talking about trying to be active in a moment without actually being in that moment or doing the things i should be doing at this present point in time. the present is the only time that exists outside of memory and assumption yet past and future are more often discussed. to talk about the present is to talk about current actions which is not done not really which is kind of strange yet makes perfect sense if present time is only truly present when shrunk down to infinitesimal beats approaching nothings.
The strength to say goodbye came from the desperate need to say hello again some time in the maybe-but-hopefully-not-so-distant future. Goodbye felt like a strategy. It felt like a plan, to her. To him, it was a point of stress he wanted to forget. To give in rather than have one more source of anxiety to quell. It was all too much.
None of it was easy. Letting go, cutting strings: those are final decisions. Calls put on hold, a welcome back home: those are situations unwritten and still in waiting: potential future tragedies: the ghosts of footsteps falling backwards. But those sweet steps forward, those eventual maybe potential tears of joy: they’d wash away an ocean of those shed for damp-eyed farewells.
That sigh of relief. That warm embrace. That long-awaited gaze. His name. His face. They could make moments explode and decades shrink to not enoughs. They are everything worth waiting for. They are everything.
It doesn’t happen quickly: it happens at a rate of one second per second: the rate of life: a rate well-defined. How long does it take to get everything you want? Never. How long does it take to achieve your dreams? One deep night of so sweet so sound sleep.
It doesn’t happen quickly: it happens all at once: the chance of putting a name to a face: the chance of remembering what it means to be saved. How long does it take to get everything you want? An instant. How long does it take to achieve your dreams? First sight.
What futures follow? A struggle. Forgetting. Giving up. Moving on. Setting out. Starting over. Starting over once again. It happens in an instant. An instant so soon lost. The gentle cadence of time. So slow, so indifferent. Always moving forward. Always giving up the past.
I swallowed another sip of beer just after I decided to quit drinking. I swallowed another sip of beer to stop to start to keep on thinking. It changes the cadence. It changes the beat. The feelings: they mellow. The anxiety: it’s weakened. I swallow another sip of beer and think about my body softening. I think about the increasing pace of aging. I think about skin drying and wrinkling and falling off of fragile breaking bones. I think about my father and my future and my kids potential human beings depending on me. Depending on me? Depending on me while I depend on an end-of-day drink.
But it’s not all that tragic. It’s not that severe. Just a just-post-noon drink or seven to slow panicking thinking to slow scattered movements little bird-like twitches amounting to inaction. Amounting to still waiting still wanting. Amounting to sum nothings. This is me and this is my hobby it is my current and it is my forward-movement: moving forward at the pace of a slowly ticking clock. This is me drinking at just post-noon in the middle of a long-weekend-placed Saturday and listening to music and feeling the inevitable tragedy of aging too young of aging too intoxicated of exchanging growth opportunities for slight simplicities such selfish exit ramps.
What else is out there? I wouldn’t know. What else is out there? The answer’s at the bottom of a bottle. Nothing more nothing more nothing more but a single solemn drop. Nothing more nothing more but some sun and some suffering and a whole big world containing infinite infinities. Nothing more than that.
a combustion engine’s controlled explosion met with a flamethrower’s reckless abandon, and she kept her fire in to get him where he needed to be, just to watch the light bounce off of his face while he burned it all down.
The feeling of wanting to have so much to say but not being able to think of anything due to already having said so much during an overextended period of time which causes new words get caught on finger tips and on the tips of tongues out of fatigue and the unwillingness to repeat repeat repeat forcing the mind go blank with emotionblock in the absence of being able to turn old emotions still felt strongly but now of inappropriate intensity into some new hypertwisted words and overminced phrases. There should be a word for that feeling.
I watch the world through the front window of my first floor apartment on a one way street. I watch cars drive by and people walk and I know not where they’re going, but where they have momentarily been. I see sunlight bend and change directions with the lightening and darkening of days. I see trees bloom and shed leaves, snow fall and melt, and neighbors come and go and get replaced.
I watch the world through the front window of my first floor apartment on a one way street, and the background shifts slightly, but there is no plot. I hear voices having conversations, but they’re reduced to misplaced mumbles. I hear rain falling, but inside I stay dry. I hear the wind blowing and the clinking of chimes, but the air around me is still save for the tiny gusts of breathy sighs.
I watch the world through the front window of my first floor apartment on a one way street, through half-closed blinds to secure the required privacy of fear. Inside two kittens sit perched on windows ledges, and they watch the world from my same perspective as I watch them long for the outdoors. Inside plants grow in indirect light and I feed them tap water and watch them as they wither. Inside I watch the world through the front window of my first floor apartment on a one way street.