Is it enough to be a watcher?
A beautiful visual must be accompanied by a physical sensation, otherwise it would be enough to look at an image of a mountain without feeling the height of it and smelling the air from the top.
Often we see pictures of the earth and the mind generates a thought, ‘I want to go there’.
I look up in my wandering and see a man on his bike.
He notices me and emits a cheerful “Good Morning”. I say the same back and feel a social unspoken rule has been broken. Nobody ever speaks to another in the desert. We are all protected by a sense of personal space.
All it takes is somebody who doesn’t conform and we are all in danger.
I wonder if I could become a non-conformist?
It’s black against the pale blue backdrop.
Its black and twisted and sharp in its nakedness. Its not unique to this place. There are countless black intersecting marks foregrounding the scene.
I would be a complete zombie…
So perhaps we could talk about zombie movies, which would remind me of a recent road trip I took out into the middle of nowhere.
The roads were lined with road-kill.
Being too tired for filters, I’d probably bring up the topic to which, if you are anything like me, would put us both off our beverages.
Hopefully the view would make better entertainment than the awkward silence that might ensue.
I was alone.
Things had been tense at the house for a while… and so I was alone to avoid the “tense-ness”, so to speak. I was not alone because I wanted to be.
The rain was pouring down outdoors, making contact in comforting sounds to the exterior of the building.
I sat staring at my computer screen in hopes of something. I didn’t know what. Eventually, through a few aimless clicks, I landed up reading a very short story, about a man who fell in love with the idea of a stranger.
I remembered falling in love with the idea of a stranger once.
He used to come to the beach and write in his car every morning – just like me. One day he didn’t come to the beach… and I never saw him again.
I noticed some tears slide their way down my cheeks.
I could hear the loud invasive cacophony of the television set in the living-room where my partner watched other imaginary lives being lived.
Free Writing – Do it!
If you were to sit next to me right now, with an equally grande sized latte, I would be eternally grateful.
Not because I need a partner in crime so that I don’t feel so incredibly greedy drinking this giant cup of a morning, but because of a recent incident on the bus.
I would ask you, after gently prying to ensure you are not such type a person, why it is that some mothers, in public, indulge in swearing profusely at their children.
They seem to do it in order to make said child less noisy, all the while drawing the commuters attentions (which the children had failed to attract) to their own high pitched and filthily embellished orders.
It also worries me that they can turn it on and off so quickly… As if it is all really an act and in no way a natural human’s occasional lack of emotional control.
The kind of thing I was all too familiar with in customer service call centers where the person on the other end of the line was audibly hyperventilating in anger and frustration (or so I used to believe).
At first I felt really bad for the children…
And then i realized that the children themselves were entirely not phased by it. Is it just me? Am I too sensitive?
I lay very still as my ears explore the world of 90’s grunge and wonder what kind of person I might be if I let the sound define me. The room around me remains unaltered, half packed since last week. The yellow paint on the walls is chipped here and there. Moving furniture in and out and all around has been done clumsily and left the marks, the walls look dirty even though they are bare.