I find myself beginning with "so where do we go from here?"
There's so much interest in knowing the future, so much obsession with finding The Path.
Breaking up the scar tissue and pulling apart what makes the body taught, I find a new sense of purpose. My fingers relax one by one until all pieces of Past are fallen by my feet. It's a start.
Now we walk.
Careful not to slip trip tumble, we crunch orange leaves of memories and prickly sticks of old regrets. I want you to take my hand, but if I tell you, you'll just nod and say you Will. So I push my tongue between rows of teeth, against the back of my lips, and I smile small.
Hello New Day. Hello Yellow Morning.
He greets the rising sun like it was his own Mother. I can't do the same. We don't have that in common.
Hello Today. Hello Mellow Mourning.
He just thinks I'm sweet and funny, nods, and reaches still toward the sun. I just burn. I think, "I burn for him."
Where do we go from here?
No answer.
Now we walk.
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the future is a derivative of the past and I find myself staring back at the past more often than I'd like to admit. when I was growing I up put so much emphasis in the future--to the point that the present seem to disappear before my eyes. walking on a cold, fading fall night I realize that I recycle too many of my stories because I don't have enough to tell. there was a time where I lived for the future, not the present. I'd like to think not so much anymore, but my opinion is bias.
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