The weight of time

This morning was so many days ago that I can't keep count. I'm aging in syncopated rhythm, the heartbeat of an insomniac racehorse five years past its prime.

Control top

I don't like the attention. I think I know why. I am guarded-- cautious-- and I like to maintain control. That's why I can never let loose at parties, why I'm often the stick-in-the-mud. I'm cautious. I like to be reasonably certain how things will turn out.

Sometimes I hate this about myself, and I rebel. I think that I will let go and have fun. It's not enjoyable though. It never is. It's not me.

I think of it as a familial saddle, with each generation leap-frogging. We look after those before us, we challenge those ahead of us. I will keep my head down and do my job.

The sighs of miles

I thought I had the words. I thought I had them because this morning while riding my bike from the train station to work, I found myself enjoying the very act of breathing. The air felt late and thoroughly warmed through, a twang of diesel and cut grass wafting through like hot sauce that purifies and elevates the flavors of the entire meal.

The rest of the world moved mechanically by like a well-tuned, slow-turned music box. I could even hear the tinkling notes through the cotton air. As timeless as it felt, it ended abruptly when I went inside the office building.

Maybe I've accepted autumn.

I'm going to go hit "Publish" on some old draft entries that only contain a sentence or two. There's some fiction mixed up in here, words written just for their joy at being seated next to one another. This entry isn't one of them, but they're in here. In case you wondered.

Autumnal panic

I used to think that I could pick out my favorite lyrics from songs and rearrange them and come up with the most beautiful poem imaginable.