A thought

So I found a new spot. Its not exactly on the roof but its close enough that the I can some view while getting out of that of most others—people strangely don't look up. Its a rare occurrence to see someone stop and really look up. I guess maybe its just because there is nothing to see: or maybe people aren't curious about what they can't see, or maybe its because I don't want to be seen. ^_^

Its a stairwell meant for emergency exits I'm guessing, as it leads to all the floors—though these doors are always locked and so there is no foot traffic, as told me by the congregations of wind swept dust and small rubble, as if waves had been creating small sand bars of debris. I liked the rustic feel though, the way all the dirt was untampered—that perfection and symmetry that really isn't symmetrical at all—the smoothness only nature can create. Even better was the view of the trains which I love. It wasn't windy, though it has been lately, but still there weren't any real human noises that could be heard—save the rhythm of my own heart and breathe. There were only horns and engines, and busyness—the daily life things that get categorized and passed off as normal, as temporary, the stepping stone to the better life, the cigarette break between your two break-end jobs that pay for your weekend wars and battles of joy with the world, that rushing of getting to class or work, or the slow push up the hill because you don't want to run and came early so you wouldn't have to , the travel, the inbetween of getting to the place you want to be without being there yet—though its all temporary regardless. And the sounds of the trains. This is something you hear quite a bit in Japan, the sounds that indicate the coming of a train, or two, or three, you don't really know. The warning, some might say, to postpone your bike or car or delivery in fear of would be doom. But it seems more a reminder to me. Of this middle ground. Of its present. Of the simple fact that this temporary time of waiting, this wild, overgrown trail between us and the illusion of our own future (or maybe more simply put: the illusion of future), the reminder that this space that we currently inhabit is all there is. There is not future. And there is especially no past, which sometimes seems even less real than the future as some of the mentally adventurous can maybe relate. Our time here is now, and it is nothing but waiting.
How droll. And What do you do while in line? do you socialize: putting off time with recalled memories or rewritten memories of different times, or perhaps new memories of future times to be though you haven't had them yet. Maybe these things are silly. Maybe its brain exercise: counting the price of the items in life's basket measuring its monetary worth and comparing that with the contents in the pocket of those jeans that are yours because you bought them on sale even though they didn’t fit exactly quite-right. Maybe its less mental: doing kegals. Though this still implies the past and future with the notion of some increased performance or dramatic finish with curtains and fireworks. What is it we all prepare for when the fact is we are waiting, as we have so chosen. Though maybe its not our choice. Is it that yellow and black striped bar in front of me telling me not to walk or drive, or maybe that bumpy patch of bright sidewalk separating me from the road, or tracks—that reminds me of the danger and tells me not to jump, though in fact all it would really take is one well timed step. Is this our choice? I suppose those who do take that step would say so, if they could say so—then again maybe that's all they wanted to say in the first place. Some might call them brave, or selfish, or scared, or insane, but it seems to me they just didn't want to wait anymore. Their temporary time was perhaps not temporary enough. Or maybe they felt they were doing all the waiting and they weren't being waited on enough. I don't know. But is seems to me that this temporary time is not meant for us. It is not meant to be a stepping stone to our own goals, a test at our own endurance of life, by which some succeed and some fail; bless their souls. As the fact seems to remain that if you're not waiting on someone, than someone is waiting on you, and if someone is not waiting on you than you are waiting on someone, maybe this is the point. Maybe this time of waiting is meant for the other, reminding you that there is no you in any future or any past, you only exist now in ever waiting for the other—it is asking as it is your constant reminder of the other. Those in line at the super market, or at the doctor, or getting gas, or going down the slide, or being ready to love. For avoiding this waiting is a question of eternal love isn't it.




As the train goes by and the shallow Dings echoes out, maybe you are being asked the question. Will you wait on me forever? Will you join me in eternity? Will you love me?
The answer to the question is ineffable as is the reason of its asking. I still am not ready. But I feel blessed it is being ever asked. My whole life—until the day I die, or the day I except, but then again I only exist right now. The choice is yours.