Death, the only certainty in life, is such a strange fascinating thing. One day it just happens and everything up to that point is but a memory in the heads of others. How tragic…how remarkably futile…it’s a wonder we do anything in life knowing this ultimate end looms so ominously around the corner…
I suppose they never will be.
I don’t ask them to be.
But sometimes I think about it.
There must be a way.
Surely, there must be a way
He makes too much eye contact but not enough. A child who can only swing full force as the pitch approaches, but missing every time, then swinging not at all. This is not his game. His eyes scour the room for anywhere else to look but land on mine with such stillness to take a momentary respite from that darting averting dance. He cannot seem to help it as a moth will endlessly search for the moon in a hot fluorescent bulb. Unconsciously his hands fiddle, twirling that gold wedding band on his left hand, what latent things lie in those lingering fingers, I wonder.
Sometimes the word sad just isn’t right. I am not sad so much as confused by my own state of being. Confined to flesh that stretches and shrinks, shows my habits, that extra cookie, those deadlifts, the lack of sleep by proximity of upper eyelid to lower. I’m a deliberate calculation of yesterday, represented in myriad molecular ways. I react in milliseconds, am no more free in many decisions than I am in choosing what color my hair will grow up from my scalp. Shaped by a personality that is molded by genetics and environment in a tug of war whose victor will never be found, both bleeding on the rope resilient to show who could possibly be just a little weaker than the other. I am a product of the past trying to convince myself that I have a say in my future, that my movements, reactions, learned responses I do without conscious thought, are not just hands on a clock doomed to follow the same predetermined loop.