16 November 2009

Sunday Night 10pm

He wishes he had some soup. He wishes she was in the spot. He wishes he had another mug of that hot apple cider with cloves he had on Wednesday night. He wishes he could figure it all out. He wishes he could fast forward just as he wishes he could pause, rewind and play in slow-motion. If he had a time machine he’s not sure if he’d go forward or way, way back. He’s always wished he could enter a date in a machine and go back to see what he was doing that day as a little kid. He likes the future unwritten and unknown. He still doesn’t know how he traveled so far and for so long because he’s a recluse at heart. He subscribes to desert island love where it’s just she and he and the rest of the world can sink into the unknown for all he cares – but right now, right this very minute, he just doesn’t know. He just isn’t sure. He watches time blink by. He walks miles in his own head every day. Along the shore. Down by the next thought, past the jetty. He buys the New York Times every Sunday because he thinks he’s buying the time to read it. He never finds it. He searches, though. He’s always searching. When he’s alone he has his heartbeat and the search.

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