The timer beneath the corner table just turned off the light.
It rained all through the night, and even though the blinds are up and the window open to let in the fresh cool air, the heavy clouds hanging low above the city make the keyboard hard for my old eyes to see. And yet, I am compelled by… well… actually, I don’t know why I brought up this blank page and began to speak onto it. My mind—as old (it seems older) as my eyes—keeps wondering why I’m doing it. It’s not like I have anything important to share.
It seems this is how I reflect on things, and I often stop as quickly as I start, realizing I have nothing to say—to me, or anyone else. But once in a while—a great while—something comes out of the thoughts that flit about and then hide. And so I let my mind and fingers ramble, wondering as I do if something of substance and meaning might dart from the recesses and grab someone by the soul?
I keep thinking about the timer… and the light.