Audience of One

I imagine my fingers as old fingers, I don’t know why. I feel like they move and speak from somewhere else, like there is someone talking to me from behind them, telling me what to put here.

I walked down the street today and watched my breath come out cold and steamy, I was wearing red boots with tassels that swung in the wind and for a moment I felt inexplicably alive, like the cold and the damp was seeping into my skin and letting me know that my eyes could shut at any time.

Given all that has transpired, is there any alternative to this sort of thinking? Given what has happened could there be a point in beginning again? I thought a lot about chances while walking and listening to the way my boots hit the ground, about how often we mess up and how often we do wrong and how often we get the unique opportunity to do it again.

I thought about how we mourn the mistake instead of rejoicing in yet another learning failure. I could have been that, I could have been anything, I could have been anywhere.

There are lots of old people walking their dogs around here and they look at me funny because my shoes are not practical, but red just felt like an appropriate statement for some reason, demanding and obtrusive and alive.

I wonder if maybe he’s sitting somewhere looking at my red boots and making a joke about the weather, but I guess I won’t have the chance to know. I find myself holding onto love, if only for a moment. How unfortunate it is that it takes something like this, to make anyone pay attention.

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