You used to stand for fun, and leisure, and, well, fun.
Now you stand for nothing but missed opportunities.
Oh, how I used to love you, Weekend.
Looking but not seeing. Not looking to see. I spend so much time. I’ve done it so often, the seeing becomes meaningless. The same every day, yet also changed every day. Too close. Too often. Never familiar, but increasingly less familiar. That’s not me. Those sad eyes. That sad look. That sad face. That’s not my face. A mask. Surely a mask. A cruel joke, realistic though, just someone else’s reality. Not un-handsome. Not old. Just not me.
Was it Nabokov who described them as deer? Or maybe it was gazelles. Girls of a certain age. Maybe it wasn’t Nabokov at all. But there is certainly something Nabakovian about the fascination with the subject matter. Continue reading
whose daddy loves her,
receives a story,
in exchange for a kiss.
She closes her eyes,
wishes very hard,
and the story comes true
in her dreams.
The first time,
guilt (almost) outweighed excitement.
was mostly just thrill
(regret a nagging, background whisper).
was pure rush
(remorse a fleeting afterthought).
I’m afraid of what comes next.
“You’re on my last nerve, honey,” he said in the dark. No answer but the sleep-even breathing beside him.
The “honey” revealed a softness underneath his resolve. Or maybe just residual desire.
Have you ever noticed…
an elevator ride goes…
[Click, click, click]
with a beautiful woman on board?
[Click, Clack. click, clack]
There is a reason all advice sounds cliched.
What changes is not what we should do.
What never changes is that we never do it.
Stop (just) dreaming and start (actually) doing. Now!