Rumi in Quechua

But at least I’ve been writing.

Was I ever more than just a face in the crowd?
Did you even know my name?
Did you ever really care?

I spent 3 hours longer alone at the coffee shop. I tried to read until I realized I was hungry. I drove to the Vietnamese restaurant and ate pho with my chopsticks like a true believer. It was not as good as the pho with Richard, I thought. I drank my Thai tea faster than I should have and then I stared out the window at the snow in April. Fucking Wisconsin. I watched the old woman with the bruise on her cheek and the net in her hair clear the tables and refill the spoons. I sat there for a while, just staring, thinking nothing, wondering if I should be thinking something. I left my broth in the bowl and got up to pay. 

I feel so disrupted. Caught in a snare. Caught in a net. I want to untangle myself, yet I don’t because I like this feeling. I like this discomfort because I feel so awake. He said he was 60% happy and I feel like a fool for announcing I was 90% happy. When the scale adjusts, do you fall or cling? 

I am not me–I am more than me. I spin in my turmoil. A home that was. I know. The things we think we want. Little do we know. Why can’t we just be happy with the things we have? With the ignorance we frequent? The problem is I’ve been surrounded by people who don’t elicit any feeling from me. So in a strange sense, it’s like I am starved–for expression. 

This is how I feel…let it erupt. Let it devour and destroy. Let it mar the road and stop the traffic. Let it change your whole day. Let it sit you down and distract you from the rest. Let it wipe you clean of those blueprints you drew up, maybe in the half light, maybe with the wrong pen, maybe at the wrong desk. Let the erasure marks take over. Let the new task at hand keep you up late into the night and give you a false sense of time when the sun rises again. 


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