Friday, November 04, 2016

Today is brought to you by the letter F.

F is for Friday

F is for Finite.


Full stop.

I am.  You are.  We are.  We all are.


Full stop.

Everything good and or bad about us.  And after a time there will be nothing left of us but stories and most of those will be fictional.

F is for fictional too.

F is for fumbling.

I am fumbling for words so I'll try a song.  Someone else's.

So long ago I sat in a cold, late autumn kitchen, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and wondering why there was no more heat.  And I watched people down on the turnpike bunched into their coats and huddled into the Long Island autumn wind.  There's nothing to block the wind when everything is flat, or maybe a building here and there but mostly there is no shelter.  And it's just damn cold.  It was cold that day anyway.  I think that was the first day I fully grasped that everything comes to an end, just like my cup of coffee and the cigarette burning down way too quickly in my hand.  I realized fully even then when I was less than half the age I am now and I could not have even imagined being the age I am now.  It didn't seem possible.  

Just like the summer green is finite and becomes the brown of fall, and then actually falls, I am finite.  The difference between now and then is that I fully grasp that even turning brown and falling isn't guaranteed.  There are winds.

And there are winds.

F is for finite.  

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