on a tuesday, months later

I do my best. I really do.

I was about to up and leave the cafe, but a song came on.

It was lovely, though I thought it was going to be prettier than it was.

There's a man, --a guy, really, (because what is a man or a woman these days?) -- who wants to slide over and put his arm around this gorgeous stranger sitting at the table next to his.

People fall in love, all the time. Little moments. The day is young.

I think I'd like to live in the financial district.  I'd get up, go work for a few hours-- and then idle in a cafe and write. Watch the light change over fire-escapes.

I know it gets lonely and quiet at night here, but I think I'd like it.  I don't mind the solitude.

So many buildings / so many souls behind glass.

I wonder how many people wander by their windows, at the hours between 10 & sleep, and think about all the other people in the city.  

I bet they don't. They have no reason to.  
There's never a reason to be alone, unless you want to be.  There's never a reason to be lonely, unless you choose to be. The solitary life is fair enough. 

I think all young people are caught between alone and not, and lost & not-- but the direction is good. We are all going along our paths, to whatever our end destinations are.

We all look for signs & directions. Options everywhere. Such safe answers.
Risk & chance, and less and less to touch, and less and less to hurt. But what is there to love? 
I want to. I really do.

Choose your own page.  2, 4, 16, 25, or shake up the rules and jump to the middle of the book, or the last page. Happiness or death, or redirection to some other page, but it's your own journey.

That's not a good enough reason to read a book.  I want something I can mull on and love.

I want a well-written book, and well, that takes a kind of certainty.

I'm not in love, but I'm also not not-in-love.  What do you call that feeling -- that's not discontent, nor dissatisfied?

It must be what a mote feels, little dust particle in sunlight.

If it's a feeling, the word is not in German, nor in French, or any old world tongue-- but in English, --and perhaps, the strictly American, New York City kind.

We're all little atoms anyway, muddled up in the same high charge/ low charge medium.

Most importantly though, is the universe infinite, or finite?

Everyone loves a redemption story.  Or, a fall from grace.

People want light to be drawn from mud.

They want to know that in our murky natures, something holy, something close to god can be wrest from us, from the flesh webbing and bone caging of our little beating organs.

We want to know that if we are black, if we are decaying things, then that we can transmute, defy ourselves, become something beyond the coal destined things we are now.
We want to know that in our desire for what we cannot name, that we still have souls. We want to know that we are not merely evolved, intricate, dirt molds that live transient lies, then die.

Well, we are dust. 
Then, water.

We are the things that've crumbled away from stars, the minuscule fragments that cease to be light.

One day, we will be a caked, dead mass, and the dying glow orb will swallow us, dry spittle of itself. 
Then, we will again become thoughtless and lifeless, become the gleaming movement that we all once were.
 
Until then though, we are only the things that lay in wait.


-
 
"What does the evening star taste like?"

"Like all other stars; a burning wind that hungers for a dark hollow to bury itself."