I sit and think about your red beard,
I think about the light reflecting on your red beard,
I think about what words I could write that would match your red beard,
All this I think and I come up with nothing.
Nothing at all.
Then I think of you,
And I think of me,
And I think about your laughter in bed,
All these are my thoughts but still . . .
Nothing about your red beard. Nothing at all.
Then I think about your lopsided smile,
And I think about you pouring me coffee in a Japanese cup,
And I think about eating carrots and celery from your plate,
And all these thoughts about food and drink but not about beard,
Nothing at all.
Nothing about your lovely, scratchy (yeah, sorry I didn’t tell you before) and oddly red beard.
As I sit in the rain and darkness falls I am surrounded by strangers and I’m one in the crowd. The lights in the city envelop us like an electric cocoon, the sky, somehow seems fake.
I feel alone, somehow. I’m not supposed to be this way, I’m not this way, when did I change? And how can I change back?
I listen to the cacophony of voices , drowning in the nonsensical chatter. Why am I here? How can I find my way back?
As darkness falls I search for my way back.
I laugh and laugh all through my tears, for whom or what I do not know. For me, I think, for my battered soul, or is it my heart that took the toll? My heart, my mind, I’m loosing both for something that doesn’t last or even exist, of this I’m sure.
For pain it comes from knowing not, confusion and being lost. Lost in someone? Lost somewhere? Lost every day and everywhere.
The pain it comes from within, for me and for him. Not to see, not to understand, to talk, to hear, but exactly what? What I say but not what I mean. I don’t understand and neither does he.
And this is where we stand. Confused, in pain, not knowing what is what. I wonder if we’ll ever understand what we really mean when we talk.
As I sit drinking my hibiscus tea I see couples coming and going, enjoying their Sunday afternoon.
As I sit barefoot in my worned Target t-shirt and wrinkled cotton pants I inwardly cringe at them.
The cool guys with fedoras, slick hair and matching lumberjack beards. The beautiful girls with flowing long hair and oh so fashionable boutique clothing and designer sandals.
When did this happened? I wonder. When did my relaxed no-give-a-shit town turn I to this pasarela?
But then, it’s not really my town; and this people have always existed here, there and everywhere; and really I’m being judgemental.
They made me want to not shower, and wear last year’s fashion – wrinkled – , and dye my hair purple and come in after a day at the beach treading sand and with salty and crazy hair.
Maybe I’m just . . . Me.
I know I am to care, and I do.
I know I am to suffer, but I don’t.
I wait for the pain to come, I wait for the tears to flow, I wait for my soul to be tortured and my heart to be wretched but I feel nothing.
I feel nothing but the silence and the calmness that nothingness brings.
Nothingness and the care for someone who doesn’t care.
How can it be that if I care, I feel nothing?