Storm in the Desert

The morning is early, the city still sleeping, when I rush down the stairs and out into the street, a few early commuters and beggars by the subway. I miscalculated the walk, even though I take the short cut across the Market square I run late. The turns are familiar but foreign, I wonder who made me a stranger in my own homeland, and maybe it was me. Face enough pain, grate life against your bleeding heart enough times and eventually you’ll be all scar tissue and numb. As the train pulled out of the station, the waters glittered and the church steeples stretched in the morning light. You know there was something here you loved but you’ve stopped looking back. It is what it is, you think to yourself as the train races through a countryside you know like your heartbeat. I ran through the woods yesterday and every spring flower spoke to me.

I have too much left to tell you and a whole life won’t be enough time for it. I better start now, and we won’t waste a minute.