Im sitting. Here, in the Park. If you can call it that. We dont. We call it a 'Public Garden' really, but thats what it is, a garden.
Im smoking a cigarette, legs crossed, sitting. The wall next to me is definite, defined, it has a purpose.
Do i?
Im waiting. For what? Anything really. Just waiting. But i know im waiting, not just sitting. The breeze flows over me occasionally, the birds talk about their plans for today. This place doesnt reject me, im allowed here. Does that mean i might not be allowed here at times?
The sun is out, im
not bathing though. It's bathing me. A person has just come into the
Garden. A tourist. I hope he speaks to me. I would like to be spoken
to, to learn, share stories, commune. The smoke from my cigarette
drowns my hand and washes over me. An owl, strange? It has such a
defined voice, calling forth with its well known hoots. I long for a
voice like that; well known, defined, me.
The seat i first
came to was wet, this one is too but not as much. I like this one
better, it has a wall next to it. It offers something intangible , something that i cant quite put my finger on.
im somewhere else now. Another kind of park. This one has a burn, more people, cars and birds. Crows. Singing their morning songs. This is one voice im glad i dont have.
1 comment:
Hm, how very existential Steven. Although I would say, out of all the group, you are the most memorable by a long shot.
Deffinition is a concept shared by many but noted by the few. Simply as we do not fully know our own, so others will sometimes see what we cannot.
Hm, maybe I'm getting a little too Plato on us here.... And just what's wrong with the crows? :(
Post a Comment