Moon Shadows and Music
A phone call.
As I sit on the cold concrete outside my front door I lite up a cigarette. Unhealthy, maybe even disgusting if you actually think about it; but I try not to. Besides, it's amazing the way we connect ordinary physical things with our mental processes. I'm listening. I'm even hearing what the voice on the other end is saying (there's a difference, you know), and even though deep down inside something is tugged, pulled forward not against its will, the rest of me stays still, steady and unmoving as I've become accustomed to being; I've heard these words before.
All around me I hear the sounds of my sanctuary. Night birds and strange insects sing there nightly verses, sing to me, telling me that they know me and feel my presence vibrating in sync with there harmonies. Telling me they understand. Thin tendrils of smoke snake through and around the fingers of my right hand, saying goodbye to one another in a kiss with my skin before sliding upwards and to the side and reconnecting, forming a new being. I've always enjoyed watching the smoke. Enjoyed the cool, sensuous movements that I seemed to be apart of somehow. Life is full of smoke. Things that grab and hold our attention as if they were meant to all along, and offer a pretty distraction to what is real. Telling us that they are real instead, never letting us forget how much we enjoy looking at and thinking about them. But they aren't real. Not like the night birds and their songs.
A tear. Not a real tear; a salty offering too often given by mistake to things that it doesn't belong to. A tear inside. A tear felt but never seen, or tasted. Something else stirs and moves out in the direction of the voice, but I am still unmoved; stone and cold as sure as the concrete porch. For now.
Sometimes I think it would be nice if night lasted forever, if the smoke was unending and always swirled and played and I could watch it and smile. But I can't hold onto the smoke, I could never hold onto the smoke no matter how hard I tried and I know; in my heart I know it could never be more than a fancy. Something that comes on occasion that I'm happy for, an intermission without which the days and Night and all the things somehow in between would be much duller and without meaning. Something, but not real. Not like the moonlight and the glistening wet grass.
Eventually I would have to choose a direction, a movement, a slide across the concrete to something firm and inviting and warm. Something I can hold onto. Something without which the Night and its music and its pretty things really mean nothing themselves.
The voice is saying goodbye now. It wants me to believe that it is mine and worth taking. But I stay still; I've heard these words before. Nothing stirs for them anymore. I say goodbye, too.
As I lay the phone down I shift slightly until I am comfortable and sit pondering the different wisps of smoke that I've watched in the past, each as intangible as the tendrils curling around my fingers. I say goodbye to them and think on what is now needed: something firm and inviting and warm. Real. I say goodbye to the last of the smoke in my hands (the smoke never lasts for long), and look out, forward.
With freshly renewed purpose I collect my things and aim my body down the street, out into the Night.
And I move.
As I sit on the cold concrete outside my front door I lite up a cigarette. Unhealthy, maybe even disgusting if you actually think about it; but I try not to. Besides, it's amazing the way we connect ordinary physical things with our mental processes. I'm listening. I'm even hearing what the voice on the other end is saying (there's a difference, you know), and even though deep down inside something is tugged, pulled forward not against its will, the rest of me stays still, steady and unmoving as I've become accustomed to being; I've heard these words before.
All around me I hear the sounds of my sanctuary. Night birds and strange insects sing there nightly verses, sing to me, telling me that they know me and feel my presence vibrating in sync with there harmonies. Telling me they understand. Thin tendrils of smoke snake through and around the fingers of my right hand, saying goodbye to one another in a kiss with my skin before sliding upwards and to the side and reconnecting, forming a new being. I've always enjoyed watching the smoke. Enjoyed the cool, sensuous movements that I seemed to be apart of somehow. Life is full of smoke. Things that grab and hold our attention as if they were meant to all along, and offer a pretty distraction to what is real. Telling us that they are real instead, never letting us forget how much we enjoy looking at and thinking about them. But they aren't real. Not like the night birds and their songs.
A tear. Not a real tear; a salty offering too often given by mistake to things that it doesn't belong to. A tear inside. A tear felt but never seen, or tasted. Something else stirs and moves out in the direction of the voice, but I am still unmoved; stone and cold as sure as the concrete porch. For now.
Sometimes I think it would be nice if night lasted forever, if the smoke was unending and always swirled and played and I could watch it and smile. But I can't hold onto the smoke, I could never hold onto the smoke no matter how hard I tried and I know; in my heart I know it could never be more than a fancy. Something that comes on occasion that I'm happy for, an intermission without which the days and Night and all the things somehow in between would be much duller and without meaning. Something, but not real. Not like the moonlight and the glistening wet grass.
Eventually I would have to choose a direction, a movement, a slide across the concrete to something firm and inviting and warm. Something I can hold onto. Something without which the Night and its music and its pretty things really mean nothing themselves.
The voice is saying goodbye now. It wants me to believe that it is mine and worth taking. But I stay still; I've heard these words before. Nothing stirs for them anymore. I say goodbye, too.
As I lay the phone down I shift slightly until I am comfortable and sit pondering the different wisps of smoke that I've watched in the past, each as intangible as the tendrils curling around my fingers. I say goodbye to them and think on what is now needed: something firm and inviting and warm. Real. I say goodbye to the last of the smoke in my hands (the smoke never lasts for long), and look out, forward.
With freshly renewed purpose I collect my things and aim my body down the street, out into the Night.
And I move.