The problem with the book I’m reading isn’t the story. It’s the problem of my living. The rote nature of it. The sentences– simple declaratives, the tasks –things that get struck from a list, done and redone.
Remember? See it?
Life. Not merely written down like any other list of things not to be forgotten, but witnessed so never forgotten
even after memory failed to hit “record”,
because a day was witnessed at its onset.
It’s the lack of feeling mornings, not the story of what happened.
The lack of witnessing.
Mornings, that time of awakening at the birth of the world to watch an egret’s legs in water, slender limbs glistening beneath a cool surface in a lagoon barely moved in the stillness of a day that has never happened before.
This day has never happened before.
This day will only rise once,
And imminently.
fleetingly.
But the lack of toes in water.
The missed watching,
the waiting
for sunlight to crest and
for beak to breach.
The skewering of a life has not yet occurred.
Failures are forever away and there is only
time
encapsulated in
the watching of a moment.
I will swallow my morning pills, read the words of great writers, do my deeds, but first, first, I must watch.
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