A white house, somewhat square, withering away, sits on the corner of 4th and Ross. I walk the driveway to the front porch and look up toward the roof. Slender pieces of siding lay flat, their paint chipping. And running in line is the gutter. I follow it to the right, barely moving my eyes, then stop and watch the water drip. Drip, drop. Falling. Dripping. Hitting. Splashing.
I follow each drop to the ground where it strikes the cold pavement. Each one in sync with my train of thought. Falling. Captivating. Hitting, again and again.
And my days go like so.
Everything in my life seems to be just a tick in the clock. A drop falling. A turn signal clicking. Tick. Splash. Fall. Symmetrical actions parallel to my inactions. Faltering. Wavering. Crashing.
And my days continue like so.
But then there’s a moment when something explodes—a thought, a belief, a wave of joy—and I forget my mechanical world and live the day with molten hands of passion, molding, shaping, refining the clay of my mind.
So I open my eyes and pull out of my parking lot of disarray. I turn left at the light, nearing my frontal cortex. Then I drive down an alleyway of glistening neurons firing at the dispense of my sinful nature and crash into a brick wall. 60 mph. Blasted. Crashed. Dead, but more alive than ever.
And I float on as an essence in the wind of time. It’s here, in this realm, where I can leave my past, present, and future and just dwell in a motionless state of attentiveness. Where I can forget myself , my mind, and remember someone else.
It’s the photo album of love, of selflessness. I scan through the scratch and sniff pictures of the people in my life and remember for one second: This person, my equal, my teammate… The faces smiling, laughing, crying. And I understand that being stuck in my mind is making love to a shadow.