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.

Pity.