Another Day

A Story by joe

The man sits there smiling ever beguiling biting into his apples core with an unreadable stare ,without the bleak intent of human ponder, why he sits I will never know, this, I say vainly for not spoken but thinking and not forgotten yet I did meditate of what reply his ghostly stare would say, would it be placid, an ad hominem, or contrary to and give a pragmatic reaction or at least with words intent, reply with unfolding words deep as to be of semantics, oh his empty stare, unreadable to foretell of what will he answer with, So I dare not say what my mind craves to express as I look into his vacant eyes with a clueless look; (so instead) I bow my head to continue this ideal picture perfect marriage where I can smile as time passes by un-bothersome to my customary actions, an everyday prevailing life well established, standing time and its changing tides. Oh it’s another, just another ending, whether it’s you or me, just not caring whether it’s you who ‘s still standing, they say if you could live your life twice you would live it more bravely, but the truth is I would, when asked I would live it with a lot less mystery and a lot more honesty.

My how I have lost myself...

Should I remember this or continue without contemplation. Another detrimental period and yet I shudder at such an obvious reason. The reason of a vagabond only speaking with the actions of aimless wondering. If there is more than this that can give such flattery in the present then I am not very keen or just not aware of it. I search for reminders but find nothing but his distraction. Another conundrum to self indulge with thought.

I finish my plate at the dinning table and so I continue nervously pacing thinking as to where I can wonder without arousing suspicion of socially awkward displacement...

Fragrant distilled summer night.

Another night to excite and enjoy. What a blessing to become distraught in overzealous ambitions overcome pleasure besought by true extensions of self expression. A snafu of uptown funk. I sit, I listen, I write, I understand, and I retract compilations of retrospective thought a sense of lament when a face continues arising in sequence. Through bliss, emotions of happiness are brought however when prescribed by the stationed deflationary laws of reason gravity uncurls my lips with a melancholic mood lingering with an ever dwelling sadness. Is this a mature way of saying that interest remains in a malingering fashion like red wine ripening through aging time.

Or... maybe I just have lost myself in another day... staring at the man who just sits there smiling ever beguiling. An unreadable stare without the bleak intent of human ponder, why he sits I will never know.