There was a picture I saw of the beach this morning. The sun was coming up and the sky was all orange and purple. I thought to myself about the last time — when was it?
I couldn’t remember. I can’t remember the last time I felt my toes in the sand. It was San Diego, I think.
The morning was all hazy and gray at first. There were a length or rock piles that reached from the shoreline and went out several yards into the Pacific. The waves crashed here, which was perfect to create the sound effects of a shoreline daydream.
I never saw a sunrise like this before.
Maybe in the fall.
. . . It could be
Maybe when the autumn hits;
the scene at Columbus Circle
consumes the city with a sense of
something that no one else could understand
(unless they came from New York City)
It is raining now. The morning is even quieter than ever before. It is Monday, which would usually mean something but there has been an alteration in our society.
The change leads us to a strange kind of cabin sickness. This is not just me or you that are stuck inside. Everyone around us doing the same thing too.
I think about the times I would play sick and stay home from school. I remember wishing I could cut out and do this all the time.
Meanwhile all the schools are closed now. There is no place to congregate and no place to experience life as we knew it.
For now this new and temporary normal has put distance between us and so many others.
There is no real difference between now and then, except for you and me of course and the age of our existence. There is no more difference between us and then, except for this, us, still being the way we are, —still hoping to be the way we dream to be, which is young, always young, and always hopeful, eager to feel and eager to laugh.
I want to feel the way we do when the sun comes up and hits the garden at Central Park near 116th street on a summery morning, where, in the middle of nowhere in the city life, there was a scene, which could have been from a movie; —as if New York City became this totally different world because of a little garden with a slate-stone walk-around, lined be specimens of trees, the kind that seems royal and regal; enough to give someone the feel of storybook reasons to walk around and love someone so much that you’d though time could stand still.
And here we are, Project Earth, the world’s biggest conveyor belt, literally, as it moves around the sun. Things will be mild soon, up here on the northern hemisphere. We will lean in and move closer to the sun.
Why, it was just a year ago today that Project Earth was at this very same position. Time sure flies when you’re moving through orbit. We age and we grow, and look at it this way, a year has gone by since this very day.
But what does that mean?
I began to wonder if anything was even real.
Are you real?
Or, are these just words formed in a sentence to fit into a trained opinion of how life is supposed to be?
Or is this just how things go here?
Sometimes, I feel like I’m just a passenger in this place, down here on a circulating conveyor belt, which I call Project Earth.
I have decided to take it back a notch, just to relax, just to think about a place, or wait no, just to think about a trip I took a while back. I stayed at a small beat up motel one block from the beach down in Ft. Lauderdale.
I am not thinking about the reason for my trip or the actual aspects of the trip itself.
No, I’m thinking about the beach and the white sand, the hot sun on my face, the palm trees and the smell of the ocean. I am thinking about the sunrise walks I took along the shore and the colors that spread out across the horizon. It’s amazing, isn’t it? it amazes me that beauty exists even in troubled times, if we look for it, that is.
There is an idea I have been rewriting for a long time now. The shape is different and so is the flow. I suppose the prose changes whenever I change but yet, the core is the same. The body is the same too, just older, like I am now, older, but still me and deep down, coming clearer, the more I revisit this idea, the more I capture my growth:
I have this feeling, which is love, which is mixed with so many things, which makes it difficult for me to speak sometimes, which is why I come here to write, because when I write, there is no stutter, and when you read, I believe you can hear me clearly.
(At least I hope so.)
There are times when the world turns and for the minute, everything is still. The moment could be crucial or even simple but either way, in the moment, thoughts can be heavy or even gentle. The sky is a large, overhead screen, like a portal to an inestimable version of what we call Heaven. The clouds drift. The wind blows and the sunlight filters down from the sky.