A journey through the neighborhood reminded me of how empty the mind, the body, and soul can leave a human being. Between the walk from my front door to the entrance of a local supermarket, a far and distant desert stretched the imagination far enough to flush out any beloved memory of life.
Looking to the left, then the right, the wind decided the fate of the steps that awaited. When looking for directions, most humans will embrace the inner voice for encouragement. But today seemed like a day to follow the influence of mother nature.
Within each step resided a thought that proclaimed its independence–like popcorn. Why is this dog barking at me as if he has never seen me? When will the next raindrop present itself to the LA area? If tomorrow was to come, will the bombardment of the monthly rent strangle me into a frantic state of confusion?
I look to the skies to see if the piercely lit sun is still tagging along. The damn thing is so bright, I haven’t seen it in years. But it still sticks by me whether I like it or not.
From the distance left, I hear the banter of an old married couple. “You’ll never be able to turn over the engine,” decries the wife. “You’ve been working on that damn thing for over six months now. Give up on it, Frank.”
The husband’s only response was to wipe away the grease from his hands and plunge himself into a thirst quenching shotgun of Miller High Life.\\ He knew the answer to the problem. Just take the malicious banter and sip on the old medicine to ease the rash.
A bird swoops across my path and lands just to my left. It pecks away at a piece of baguette that was tossed away within the morning. If not for this piece of bread, would lunch be a stack of blueberries slumbered with mold or perhaps a stale, tasteless remains of a McDonald’s french fry basket? Sure enough, the bread compensated for the hunt.
Ahead of me, a mother and her son stroll past me. Because of my lack of routine refreshment of the Spanish language within the past five years, I found it difficult to keep up with the basis of the conversation. Shame on me. But based on the attitude of the child and the smile on the mother, I sensed it to be an elementary introduction and enjoyment of a new day. Sweet bliss. He tosses a ball in the air and challenges himself to catch it midway–each time he fails. Spectating, I smile and lend my appreciation of the moment to the withered mother. She shares a chuckle as if she needed the recognition baaaadly.
The two carry on, as do I.
Within moments, I’ll round a sharp corner and pass two distinguishably diverse churches that reside as neighbors. With each trip, I catch myself walking lightly as I pass the two as if I’m strolling through a burial ground. To be honest, I’m not completely wrong. Is it out of respect or admiration? I don’t know. An extreme conformity to recognize a religion has always been an odd thing to me but I’ve always respected the grounds of those practices–with the understanding that’d share this respect.
Approaching the fourth of four intersections along a somewhat routine walk to the market, I found myself waiting on a car blaring an unfamiliar freestyle rap beat. [Just typing the previous sentence I catch myself questioning the existence of the youth within me.]
As I finish the remaining stretch, I am reminded of how unbalanced this world finds itself. A hand quivers and stretches out for another hand. A jacket once owned by another finds itself on a back that cries for a roof.
How the world can turn so quickly without any notification or physical vibration…
THESTROKESNERD. 