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.


(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.


About pinklightsabre

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