Wednesday, July 23, 2003

Patterns

In the small hours of the morning, it makes sense to you. Everything is clear. Go down the path you've walked before, don't pay any mind to the signs and passersby, warning you to turn back.

The familiar road, a crooked path, and yet.

And yet.

You turn a corner and everything looks the same. There's no porch step or over-priced bottle of Coke, true, but for those, it could be 1996 and the air could be cool and the night could be quiet except for the sound of two hearts beating, two pairs of lungs whispering the same, intoxicating tattoo.

"Reach out," you hear in the wind. "Reach across that tiny distance, that small space that separates you and possibility, take hold and don't let go. There is no past, there is no future, there is only now and the infinite promise of the moment."

You are a fool. "When you know you can't have what you want, where's the profit in wishing?"

But what care you for profit when, yet again, you're falling in love with a poor man?