moss

I want to see the stars, to escape the concrete fields, made up of parking lots, the ever-present glare of streetlights, and perhaps for a moment, I will be back in that time of warning, where the lights were but flickers in the wind, and the stars were bright, above every eye.

I’d wish to lay on my back, gravity cementing me to this Earth. To truly experience my beautiful meaninglessness, in the vast expanse of space. A painting of all things uncaring, laid out in front of my eyes. Not made itself a spectacle for my amazement, existing all the same, without an action of mine to change that. Finally interpret that for which the nameless many have seen in their own colors before. Witness a reality that will be true forever after my footprints. To be in my moment and many more. An unwilling nature that I cannot carry, but will hold all the same. Up to the time of when I join the stars in being immovable in my advance.

I wonder what makes someone abandon something? Maybe need, maybe want. I see broken down buildings, where roots the grow through the walls, and I wonder what life was like when that place was loved. I think myself into the past, try to envision the place anew, Repair the tiles in my head. My brain refurnishes, my mind straightens the curtains, and tucks the sheets, and yet still it’s hard to see, blurry around the edges. Sometimes I do the opposite; I wonder what my life would look like abandoned. I think my school into disrepair, I conjure the seats from their places. I ponder the way someone else might attempt to envision my life, as I have to so many. I wonder how they might think, may stumble on a place that I love, with few doors still set on their hinges. I wonder about the abandonment, but more so the abandoned.

I sit here, on these steps, fully in this moment. And I absorb all that is around me. This could be the perfect day. Barely a chill, on the breeze that exists just strong enough to ruffle through the trees. The sounds of leaves, skittering across the pavement. The birds sing and call, the cars whiz by. This should be the perfect day. And for some, it is. For some, they feel this breeze, and don’t feel loss in the chill in the air. For some, they see a bright day, without tragedy. But for me, it isn’t perfect. It could never be. For what I hear, in the chirps of the birds, is a sound that another never got to hear. What I feel, in the warmth of the sun on my face, is a beautiful day that someone else will never see. What I see in this day, is that someone’s story has ended. They don’t get to add anything else to the history books. They’ve left their mark, and come and gone. And it feels all too soon. What I see in this could-be perfect day, is that I take for granted that this won’t be my last.

A passing face means nothing to a stranger in the crowd. Yet that same face could be someone’s lifeline, someone’s anchor, and that face might mean the world to them. I see so many faces, on some my eyes linger, some just get a simple glance. Yet I can never see the entirety of another’s life. There will always be more layers I have yet to see. The only person, to truly know oneself, is one. And there is nothing that can change that. I will never know if it is a passing face’s birthday, or the happiness that lies within. All the same, another face could be mourning, could have been weeping, and I might never know. I don’t know the tragedies, or the joys, of the faces that surround. Only those of a precious few who have entrusted me with the knowledge of themselves. And I will try my best to share with those who have done the same with me. And I will live my life blending into a stranger’s crowd, as nothing but a passing face.