so, what of it....

So, what of fall? And what of migrating birds overhead, flying, running away from death while we fall behind. What of the many-winged flutter and mutter of people around us? And of seeing all of nature (other than us) moving hurriedly into unexistancehood?
I stand in the struggling-flowing rot of the city. I don’t know enough about the rot to speak of it conclusively so far, other than it’s worst in the Fall.

So, what of a notebook breaking down – and I finding myself crazily -- and on a quietly flowing midnight – in the strangest (yet vaguely familiar in a distant sort of way) of all places: Staring at a white and demanding piece of paper as my fingers lazily rotate a pen between them. I look at my fingers – not recognizing them and I ask:

“does this moment have motiony walls?”
“is this a real moment?”

The exquisite flutter of present tense….the now….the real: “I suddenly realize: it’s the real that is spread in front of me”. The present tense with a real pen and a real crisp-woody-whitish piece of paper, and real loneliness . The present tense is where I find myself.......and to my surprise it’s the only place where life is. So, this one time, this one night, without links or pictures – no information – no constant connectivity – no tags no comments – no unmet-imagined friends – no tempting fires behind the glass that always dance but never burn – so what of it if this one time, this one night, I live in the now, I live in the real?