When I’m there I’m not

Connecting! I’m on the text now because I got one while I sat at the restaurant across from my kids, coloring. We step outside to take it down, it’s so good.

IMG_1793

(It’s like we’re here now, but not. I can see it, what I’m doing. I shouldn’t have, but I can’t help it. Wait! He’s writing back!)

I walk to work, and think about the weekend: the last one, the next one. Plans, memories. “The Memoir.” The mind is a balloon in the breeze, and I lost the string.

It’s almost noon, and I’m killing time, trying to make the days go by, counting them down. The arc of the sun is lower. It’s 3:40, there’s just two fingers left.

Joyce wrote a whole book about a guy, “A Day in the Life.” It depends on what day, I guess.

Sometimes when I look at my life, it’s like I’m looking at it through a window. I can’t hear what they’re saying, and they don’t know I’m out here, watching. A body drifting above itself, from a dream, outside looking in.

I get up in the morning and it hangs on me still, but then I forget about it and go about my day, write lists, cross days off the calendar. They’re just numbers.

Robyn+Hitchcock+Robyn_Hitchcock2

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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