Perhaps I am aging out of discretion, or is it that each morning has its own light, its own way of being new. Holding the coffee a long time before sipping, cats padding around the downstairs, neighbors opening and closing doors. In my dreams, a cardinal kept circling the yard, as if looking for a place to land, but then I realized it was caught in repetition. Sometimes there is a sadness it seems we will never reach the ends of.
Noticing over coffee - between curtain and window frame, partially - the waning moon, further south than one would expect. Nature abhors both vacuums and straight lines yet both exist. One struggles to find what is worth struggling for before briefly surrendering. Dawn, again.
Sean again? On Thursday I'll drive four hours to the sea and then four hours back, a kind of service or possibly martyrdom. In dreams, there were fires everywhere and I navigated them carefully, saving things that were worth saving. A habit of waking before the alarm in order to triumph over alarms.
Or is not a game at all? We make shopping lists, careful to avoid saying what cannot be said: that we can barely afford food now, let alone the gas to go buy it. You wonder sometimes did Jesus ever long to cease his peripatetic wandering and settle down with a nice girl? I miss you, I'm not okay, et cetera.
Living always with "or else." And? The requisite coupling continues to elude me. The light, it is so much dimmer than I remember.
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