For four of the last six weeks, I have not been present in my city. And even those days when my physical body walked the cracked asphalt lines, my mind and heart were elsewhere.
I am here.
A book on a ledge, “The Russian Concubine,”
A man in a orange vest sprays the sidewalk, “Watch out,” he says, aiming the spay where I will walk, “I’m cleaning up the mess they made.”
“They” are people trying to live their lives the only way they know, the only way they can. They are oblivious as to why it is a total disaster for everyone, especially them.
I thank him for making a difference, and even though I’m careful, some of the mess clings to me as I move.
A man wearing a Harley Davidson baseball cap sits on a low wall, his left hand cupped around a cigarette, the smoke seeping out from under his outstretched pinky, like steam from a cup of tea.
The fog mutes everything: colors, sounds, and view. One day, it will mute the memories too, leaving only a softness of indistinct shapes with blurred edges, emotions long spent, will lose their vibrancy and fade into grey.
It is now.
But I still remember how, so long ago, as I stood at the edge of the Abyss, lured by love and a sense of duty, it stared back; and I turned, vowing to never approach again, no matter who beckoned.
All else is moonshine.
What did you see?
#mymorningwalk