He sits in the back corner of the corridor-pink glow waiting like anything has not ever happened. Sip after sip, ankle turn after ankle turn over the other knee, deeper into the corner he slips after his eyes travel across the diner’s muted horizon.
It is the way it goes, the way you make the clock turn, the way you lose yourself in layers of memories and parallel realities. In parallel realities, you might want to question whether parallelism falls on Time or Being. You can only be in one place at one time, right? Being is particles of the Soul. Are you all of your Being? Common sense over here says fat chance. There’s a reason church can feel so good, coming together silently seeking within for the humble unity of surrender. I will bring up the irony; the church was originally erected for the sake of control or better, “govern-ment”. Now many of us seek salvation in church. I open my eyes to the irony of not embracing our Wholeness when Church means the air, plants, trees we breathe and water and dirt we consume as well as recognizing the silent Wholeness of Being deep inside.
He takes one more sip of his black coffee and the last bite of the diner’s famous old-fashioned apple pie and leaves his tip on the table as he rises from the vinyl aqua blue kitchen chair. Not a single head turns as he walks out of the diner without a tremble of scurry. A soft, pleading tune is the tune of his breath.
What are you going to do about your innate gifts? How many do you think you have? Do you think they all fit like a masterpiece with the others’? Why do you think you are here?
A gentle, slow raindrop hits the curve of his hat as the diner’s door closes behind him. His hat, trench coat, and slacks; not too dark but nothing bright, makes him feel like Leonard Cohen. A certain song buries itself in the veins of the cords in his brain. Oh, Suzanne.
“The world is merely a stage. We all are players and have roles to play.” -William Shakespeare.
I highly doubt he said that in the middle of a hurling mental tumble. He probably thought of it while being in the eye of the storm; the storm being ceaseless thinking. How can one ever be bored? Try opening the window in your mind. There’s so much to digest. One day I might stop swirling on my soapbox and be truly, wholesomely cleansed by the eye of my storm.
He walks in the street with his back slightly hunched, rain softly pattering and slipping off his hat and slightly turned upward collar of his trench coat. As he blends with the traffic and rain, it is like they were never separate.