Crow-ded

Things fail when I look back and I sense strong presence in my written memories. I was there, it was beautiful and (or because?) I could write about it. Now I'm longing for the same to happen. And it fails. I worship something that is gone. I don't see that the subject of my worship is made of the same substance as this moment. It's made of presence. What is wrong with it? Why do the words go far from me each time I reach out my hands for them? The more I'm longing the farther they go.

I open the file I wrote yesterday. I open the one from two weeks ago, a year ago... Not much has changed. Sometimes it scares me how some thoughts keep circling in my head without realizing it. Circles. Unawares as I get on the train every morning. I look at the people on the platform. There are familiar and strange faces. I throw a smile randomly at someone then I follow with my eyes the wingbeats of a crow above the wires. This is your life - I'm whispering into my own ear.

I stand in front of the opening door to get on the train. We all hope we get a seat. Just one seat. We are all sleepy but we become sharp in the moment the door opens. The crow on the tree looks at us reservedly. I could be the first one and I could sit down, I could be the last one and stand. I could skip the train, I could leave. Nothing makes a difference. The crow is a crow, there is no chance.

Things might fail over and over again no matter what choices I make. But if I'm present anything can happen.

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