I tip toe down the hall
into the kitchen
Trying not to make a sound
Attune to the noises
The steps that I take
Items I move
My God the coffee machine grinding beans is horrendously loud!
Having guests in the house
Acute awareness rises
A mirror shines on personal routines
It’s too early for normal people
I pretend to be a ghost
But my body feels heavy
It’s not at all convincing
I open the front door
Peer into the darkness
Sigh happily
Stars
The damp smell of grass
Rising
The stair is quiet
All heat from yesterday flown
I sit and think
As quiet as a mouse
Where does that term come from?
All the mice I have known are loud
Have you ever had a mouse in the room with you?
It grinds and crunches and leaps around the place
It’s dense furry body scrabbles on floorboards
Mice are noisy
So are Kate’s
But I can’t be late for the sun
I have this time to write and muse
Before the day is begun
And I guard it like gold
Fill it and let it fill me in return
It’s not the same restful quality of sleep
But the peace of untangling thoughts
Hearing myself talk
Understanding
To step outside of the subconscious ride that dreams provide
While the traces of that other world are still close by
The people who visit me there
The places I go
I don’t know
They only ask more questions
I prefer my own
So here I am
Sipping my loud coffee
I wonder if I’m odd?
And then don’t let the thought bother me
Of course I am
By age 50ish most humans are grown enough to be different and strange
Or else they have lost their minds
turned a basic shade of beige
Sawn off their corners
To fit with the rest
I, on the other hand
am a puzzle of my own
And I like my own company
The very best
*other people give us the opportunity to look in mirrors. Header photo – a track that leads to the right of where I normally walk in the mornings.
I do go down that way sometimes but it is very overgrown at the moment. It reminded me of routines and paths that we take and how we automatically choose the usual clear cut way most of the time, rather than the unknown or overgrown.
Everything is a metaphor.
Our whole lives are a metaphor.
But for what?
