and, on the other side it’s my noon.

hang on

I think there’s a pull. Or a push. Or a step forward. And then a few steps back. And it’s fun. And it’s nice. It’s exciting. Then, it’s dangerous. And you find your feet stuck in a bucket of cement. And you can’t move. But, sometimes it’s nice to be idle.
Funny, you want to step back and watch time and want something to happen. You want to make it happen. But, you don’t because nobody wants to be responsible for it.
Because you can watch the clock and think, ‘soon it will happen.’
Or you think, ‘should I let it happen ?’
Or, you don’t think at all.
So, your noon is just your noon. It’s not his or her evening. Not his noon. Not his nine. Not his five.

Now, your noon has become his or her distant memory.
You become a memory.
Because that’s what space and time do; they make things fade away slowly into a distant memory that, hopefully, makes you smile.
They make you miss a person, but mostly they let you forget. That’s what time and space and distance do.

And sometimes, you push the clock back. Push it out of sight.
You push it so far back, it tips over and breaks.
And then you have no time to count.
It feels better.
And, somehow you feel better.
And, finally, you push your breath out.

Because when you never see anyone, distance doesn’t care, and time doesn’t matter.
Time is irrelevant. And it can dip.
And it can be spent or wasted alone or with someone else, or doing something else.

But, I don’t know., maybe you just hang on. And that’s better. Hanging on and holding your breath is better.


To answer Dani’s question, when it’s noon in Seattle, it’s our noon, too.

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