Prose from the overnight

I lay on a black-tar roof, looking at the moon above Manhattan.
My back is against a brick wall.
My legs are stretched out and slightly apart.
Below me, the city moves.
Inside, my mind wanders.

Maybe there’s something to this, you know?

We are on the verge of winter, but yet, the summer was just here.
It seems as if I blinked and women changed from their sun dresses and open-toed shoes, into high-heeled boots, with leggings, and coats with scarves.
We are close to the end of another year. In two months, we celebrate our trip around the sun.
This is when I return to a sacred place, which to me, is the sanctuary of my childhood.

There are no stained-glass windows in this chapel. There is no smell of incense or an organ to play for the congregation.
Here, the walls are made of memory. The ceiling is the sky and the choir is the sound of waves folding on the beach.
I see the sands as forgiving. I see the outgoing tide as anonymous and forgetful.
Perhaps, that’s why I choose this place for my confessions

I have seen different places in my life, but none like this. Most of the places I have seen are domestic.
I have been on both sides of good and either side of clean.
I have felt the experience of sleeping on a park bench because I thought I was unwanted anywhere else.
Yet, I have also sat in places with high-priced menus. I have been called a gentleman as often as I’ve been called the opposite.
I have lived more lives than one.
Wherever I am now is only because of where I have been. And because of this, I have learned to open my eyes.
I have learned what to look for and what to stay away from.
The mind has its own way of sabotage.
This is our body’s way of changing direction.

I feel like I’m on the verge of something
But I don’t know what

So rather than think,
I lay back…
….feel the wind blow against my body
and forget about the things I should have done differently
There has to be a reason,
you know?

3 thoughts on “Prose from the overnight

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