Eight Minutes

As still as this paper and pen before picking them up.

The streets leading into the heart of Dallas, had been doused by an early shower that we did not hear fall from the 14th floor.

Keeping my eyes half open to see things I hadn't remembered ever seeing, though I'd worked near Stanley Korshak those many moons ago.

Today, I felt like a tourist or that elderly relative, amazed by her own shadow; that aunt or cousin everyone has, always bewildered by life and the findings within the folds.

How large a group of trees to the south were, surely hundreds of years old, tucked a monumental styled group of buildings behind the regal draped sleeve, perhaps of pageantry or tradition.

How queer the turns were, nonsensical almost proving the need for a box to guide you to your destination.

And while I wound around them like thread on a spool, I felt comforted by the normalcy happening around me.

Even the nanny going back across the street to rescue a pink elephant seemed heroic (though odd in the same breath, I expected she would have left it behind like an unwanted affliction of entitlement).

The dew dangled between the clouds making the air grossly thick and even though a cold blast from the vent would balance the weight, I could still inhale the movement of the city and wondered if everyone else could enjoy an eight minute moment like this and see the vibrations as clearly as I could.

The grooves disappeared that rolled upwelcoming me home, I thought how perfect the morning was that ultimately, like all mornings do, eased me into taking on the rest of the day.

I will look for this again tomorrow whilst gazing in the glass that painted the world's reflection for me.

If I stare long enough, I might remember the beautybefore my eyes dry upand I can't blink.

September 27, 2017