when you think and you decide to write what you think
just like following a river and marking each flow with a sigh or a stone
just like the way i am trying it now
you (pause), think some more, disregarding the window pane fronting you,
its light green shade, you miss the sound of typewriter on the other side of the room,
the sound of rain (it just rained) and the whispers of the wind,
you chat with a friend who is pouring out his disappointments, you continue
typing your words, as though your fingers have a mind of their own,
include in that forgetting yourself, the one thinking and typing and hearing sounds
a woman just called, his daughter dress is too short for her party,
she eats words, and you continue thinking (pause) you hear the sounds of hammer
someone is nailing wood, then you stop.
you raise your fingers as though the teacher has told you to stop writing
as though you are taking a test.
then you tell yourself. I am pleasing life, I am deceiving it into believing that there is so much to do.
That there is nothing to worry.
That there is nothing to think about seriously.
Life flows. And actually, there is no need to mark.
You cannot see marks on rivers. It is just water
trapped between its own banks.
You watch yourself watching yourself.
That is what actually is life. And they want to call it living.
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