polish train

we whizzed by
countrysides dotted with
red-roofed tiny houses
in which women stirred pots
and kneaded dough
in the slowly fading summer afternoon
of three-o-clock.
fields spanned further than i could trace
with my eyes.
i had never seen such colors
as those that i witnessed
giving life to the grass
and the flowers
sprouting from the soil.
at the crossroads
people stopped
on their bikes,
in their little cars
and watched the train
with indifferent eyes
as we passed
clanking, rattling, no seats.
as i stood
at the open windows of that old train,
i found that
i could feel
impossibly alive.

Humbling

I tune in. I'm in.

Time is the thin shell surrounding the yolky egg of eternity.
(Can you tell that I'm reading Tom Robbins at the moment?)

I listen to the slight scraping sound my shoes make as I lift them off the ground to climb the next stair.

I watch as the shadow of my pen jots and bobs its way across the page.

What's different about this? You know that you feel differently, but you can't quite put your finger on the things that have changed.

On the one hand, you want to be as precise and exacting as you could be.
On the other hand, you want to get rid of all those ideas that you hold––have held––for quite a while. You want to reject the very systems which have built in your mind the sturdy foundations of those thoughts.

Whatever you do in life.... they told you that you can do anything. But don't do that.

You used to sing your way through the blues.

What happened?