Zephyr

You spend a day reading Greek Mythology, so sure there is something there in a story already told which will open your own like a present or a flower's petals. In the end, it's in speaking the words out loud to a friend that solves it. The story of Eurydice winks at you in a margin, and you see how the years build in layers, your life builds in layers, you are not ungrateful. 

The weekend races past you, the life races past you, how do you not have a minute's rest even as you determine so much to find it. You wonder what other people do with their days, you wonder how quickly a life can pass from beneath your fingers. In a week, I return to New York, and yet somehow it feels like there is adventure neverending at the other end of each one-way ticket. One way to many.

And yet I spend a day writing, and none of the rest of it matters. Spend the day writing, and even the fastest falling grains of sand in the hour glass feel heavy as gold, feel worthy of gift wrap. 

So that if I spent an entire lifetime endeavoring only to do this, I will go to my death bed, one day,
in peace.