Living Rhythm

A brief meditation on girls, youth and writing.

                  I find myself becoming more and more desperate for her.  And the eyes, I feel as if teetering on the window sill, hoping to fall into the inner woman.  There's no other way to describe it.  Once, it was like I never saw her and now it's the little details that hang me up on her.  Her hair, the style, way she holds it, the color;  and of course, her blue eyes.  That laugh that has just the right blend of rasp and genuiness, a great sense of humor, and a body swathed in complementing fashion.  And now that I am listing all these attributes that perfectly match all my little idiosynchratic desires, I understand why I'm afflicted by this infatuation.  Maybe I should get out more or find a hobby.  Because this is most likely another blip on my radar of quasi-infatuations that I routinely endure.  Ask any of them.  My luck is such that I expect very little out of life so as to never be disappointed.  Anything more is just begging for another heartbreak.  No thanks, not me.  It's safer to indulge myself in the vacation of the written word.  Give life a meaning, explore it narratively;  the emotion of poetic sorrow.  This frees me to spiritually destroy and rebuild at my own pace, under my own supervision and at my own call.

                   On the paper as my pen writes this...  I can overcome the tragedy of disintegrating youth just as I can overcome the reality of never knowing this woman in a deeper sense.  For years now, it seems as if the line between my narrative flow and "real" life has been obscured, such as I'm writing down what's happening all the time, blurring daily events into story formats, standing at the edge of the abyss, watching my youth grow into the past.  This is my child now.  My child has been confiscated by Child Services.  That's what poor editing will do to you.