Conversations

There's dialogue constantly on the run through my head these days.  That's normal right?  No monologue, no great singular thoughts, no.


Iterations, justifications, do-overs.  The worst.  What do you call this?  Oh that's right, heartbreak.

"Oh, I know all about you. I know what you did."

That's about when it would all start settling in, the reality of the situation.

"What'd you think? We were gonna meet and I'd give you a job? No, this is your send off, your fond farewell my friend. She said to tell you that you'll never--"

"I'm gonna cut you off right there. How old are you? Let me guess, forty-two."

"Thirty-six."

"Yikes. You ever ask yourself where all the time's gone?"

"What?"

"Rhetorical question. I'm not done."  Deep breaths, lean back.  You figured this would happen remember.  "I'm guessing at one time or another you've thought to yourself, 'This means something!' Haven't you."

"What, like this? You bet this means--"

"No, I mean ever in your life.  Something's happened that stuck out to you and you said to yourself, 'This means something.'"

He thinks back.  "Yeah, so what? Everyone thinks that at one time or another."

"Probably."

"So what are you getting at?"

"It doesn't work like that."

"What?"

"You think only certain things mean something? No, that's not a reality. With something like meaning, reality will always deal in absolutes. You can believe that we're just wandering through this life by ourselves, off the wire, that nothing means anything and you wouldn't be wrong. But to say that this moment doesn't mean anything and the next one does is preposterous."

"What, you don't believe somethings happen for a reason?"

"No, I believe everything happens for a reason, and this universe is reciprocal. I think you'd probably call it karma, and you wouldn't be wrong. Karma isn't pick and choose. It's absolute, or it doesn't exist at all. That' the whole point of karma. We all get what we deserve."

Sans Chevaux

My horses have all run away.

I've become a recluse.
I work late on the busy weekend nights.
When everyone's out being merry and gay at the bars,
I'm set behind a desk in a lonely marble lobby room.
It's a big desk, white marble too, like the walls.
I watch a movie alone.
I eat alone.
I play my music alone.
I listen alone.
I sit alone at my desk and I try to write,
and I teach myself French or Spanish depending on the day.
It's a truly miserable existence.

I shouldn't say that.
It's a beautiful life I have.
I have loving parents, I should love them more.
I have a select few good friends, I should talk to them more.
I should see them more.
I should drive away from this place more like I used to.
Down south, up north, anywhere, just away from here.
I feel like stagnant water and that's no good.
Good water is always on the move,
like the oceans,
like the rivers,
like the streams and the sea.

I need to let her gone.
No, I've done that.
I'm all alone now.

Oh, where does all the time go.