It is lovely to walk in the neighborhood, at least at times. The air is comfortable. Sunset just concluding… Hard not to marvel at the artist who creates these visions.
If necessary I bundle up a bit. Clothes are comfortable. I will wear gloves, if it is particularly cold. On rare occasion a knit hat for my head.
I try to be nonchalant, almost invisible really. I just want to talk through. Admire the trees. Wave at someone else who may be walking by. Some times birds are quite busy in the sky.
There is a sound, but I do not know how to describe it. It is the sound of being. It is not a recognizable sound — neither soft nor loud — nor pronounced. As silent as your heart beat.
There is an occasional house where I catch a glimpse into the window. And, on occasion, a family there. Or a person reading. Some times, not often, a television set with persons gathered around it.
I can see in. While it is inviting, I am a stranger. I do not belong there. I do not knock on the door nor say “Just passing by”, and expect to be asked in, let alone take off my hat, or put my feet up.
To be certain, I am just passing through.
Yet it stays with me. What I see, hear, what I sense. Stays with me so when I get home, the door often is quickly closed behind me.
To this day, I am not sure why, to this day I will close the curtain before I sit down to write.
It is just me now. I have contents from my overflowing heart, spilling onto the pages like trinkets from a bag. Was I just visiting a market? Where did all this come from?
Who am I writing to?
This is not a letter, this is not a book, or a story, a poem, a painting, or a musical composition.
What is it that I feel compelled to record?
You tell me, if you are reading this now. I am sharing with you that the hearth of life is precious. It is warm, and it is among us. It should not elude anyone, ever. I am beseeching someone, perhaps you, perhaps myself, to take stock of all of this, this… existence.
Curtains can be opened now, and I will see out. It is darker now, so the stars are far more visible.
While I was composing, for lack of a better way of putting it, the world changed a little bit, or perhaps a lot.
Funny, you may walk by and see me now at the window. If I do not wave it is because I do not know you are there, but my heart is with you. Maybe one of these evenings we can walk the neighborhood together. When we are done, I will drift off if you do not mind. I have to pour out my heart, and then put it back on my sleeve. Then look out again at the world.
