There was a writing exercise I used to do where I would write about the month I was in. I’d write in a brief and halting voice. Stopping and going. Blunt would be the way to describe it. I wrote this one in May, so I will be post from this post: 1 May. I will go through each day in May.
Sun trickling down my face. Sanctuary. I gaze into the sky, from behind my eyelids, incase anything should ever happen to me, I’ll always remember the warmth of the sun. I listen: The breeze blows by and is gone. I hear: Children’s laughter in the distance. I smell: Hotdogs waiting in a cramped stand, served by a fat-guy who hates his job, but can’t quit because he loves the free hotdogs at lunch. I wait: She’s always late to meet me. Today: She doesn’t show. A bird lands next to my shoe. He stares at the laces and looks intently. He follows up my legs, pass my chest, and meets my eyes. He tilts his head like a puppy would when you talk to a puppy with a high-pitched voice. He’s a pigeon. He’s the ugly cousin of the dove. He must be jealous. Knowing that you could damn well be just a beautiful, but you aren’t because you are a pigeon. You aren’t a dove. He looks happy. Why? He must know he’s a pigeon. He must know that he is grey and not white. He’s a city-bird. He’s not beautiful, but he is well known. For what image is for him to decide. You cannot create your beauty, but you can reflect the image you so wish to convey. Life comes and goes as the wind that blew across my face. Short time. Short life. We live with time we don’t have.