I like words. When I hear them fit unexpectedly easily together into phrases with an almost audible click, I write them down. It’s a longtime habit that decorates the notebooks, old bus passes and random receipts that clutter my car, my purse, my nightstand. My mind.
It’s funny how, when I string them all together, each line spoken by a different person, spoken in a different year, they make a sort of sense. The first words are from a friend who died by his own hand, which makes the words seem all the more ephemerally connected to the words that follow, all from friends of his – literally and metaphorically – except the last words – those are by a man who spent his life being an ad executive, a man I did not know but who died at the age of 52 (the same age as me as I write this); they were startling words, not for their content – let’s face it, who is surprised that an ad exec is sorry he wasted his precious time as an ad exec – but for their quality; he could have been a contender, but didn’t know it – didn’t understand the fragility of the now – until it was too late.
The fragility of the now:
Behold the secret land!
I wish for gentle hearts in open space,
I’m yearning for 90 degrees with 100% humidity,
to get a dose of his sweet vibes and maybe some Miller Lites
I’m pretty sure he’s still married.
To name yourself is to know who you are
I don’t know who I am, but I can tell who and what I am not
Yoga –what’s the point, to be a yogi?
An awakening to disillusionment.
I was going to die before I had even lived –
Baptism is an automatic upgrade,
But is the moon a reliable narrator?
As a life, it all seemed like such a good idea at the time.
But I’m not really sure it passes The Overnight Test.