Posted on 08 October 2015

It’s these quiet days that compress the soul and heavy the mind. It’s scary – like a detachment – as a humble, lonely observer. A bus horn blows, birds chirp, ducks quack, tires spin, wind muffles the distant chatter. A hispanic man with a blank ball cap naps in front of me – he’s curled up with some of his possessions in small black plastic bags. A dog shat – twice – each time in a different spot. I know the owner picked up the first, I want to say the second, but not positive. I got distracted thinking about people resting on grass where a dog once shat. What I presume is a homeless man sat not too far from the second area, propping next to him his “Wilson” – a rather dirty, orange, furry stuffed animal. Before that, a quirky individual, having quite possibly a mental “disorder” snuck a piss in the bush palms – his headphones hanging around his neck. I guess that’s how he prefers to listen from them on this sunny day in this sometimes shady park. He assumed what I figured might be the stance and the stream between his legs confirmed my intuition. I don’t think he was aware that I caught him not being very discreet at all – then again, it’s my guess he couldn’t care less. I don’t judge any of this though. It’s all just a clock that circles. Sometimes I’m the hour hand, sometimes the minute hand, other times I’m in the white space; most of the time, I’m just a number. All of the time however, in it one way or another – whether I or we all never realize it. A baby cries, sirens echo, text messages dry up, a man wears plaid shorts, high white socks with loafers and closes his trunk. People just come and go. I sit here. I’m stuck. Waiting for something to happen. This is usually when I’m impulsively responsible for something unfortunate happening to myself. I feel stomach sick and often lonely. Deep breath. A Mexican nanny pulls two white kids, a boy and a girl, in a red wagon, and speaks to them in spanish monotone. Everyone’s busy because they have to be here – we were raised and conditioned that way; otherwise we’d go crazy. Tell me about it. I saw somewhere it takes 365 days to cleanse the entire body or for it to restore itself; also apparently 21 days to “rewire” the brain positively by grateful thoughts each day. Those themselves are exciting thoughts. An attractive 20-something year old walks by on the sidewalk across the street – she’s walking and texting at the same time. I get distracted because that’s biological programming and oddly unavoidable. I sit with my legs straight out but crossed and my boxers uncomfortably cinch my nuts. Again, stuck. I will have to adjust, no one reason other than I’ve had enough of it, all the while before a man drives off with his elderly mom that he walked hand-in-hand, and separately before a foreign couple pays the meter before their toddler toddles off. The lady puts her Starbucks down on the ground to do it, then I drift in thought – I remember I’d like to invest in these self-balancing wheel-boards, but don’t think there’s one single company patent. I’m bored and need a fix and that’s my problem.

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