the White River

In desperate need of rest but too tired to take a nap, I came walking to downtown Muncie.

On the way back, I descended to walk the path alongside the White River.  Ducks began to follow me, waddling expectantly, but I told them I had nothing for them.  The bagels I'd bought at Farmstand were still too frozen to share.  I saw a girl standing on the edge of a the bank where the water rushes over a dip.  She was smoking, and looked to be about twelve or thirty.  I tried to make eye contact with her, to tell her I approved of her mismatched leg-warmers of eccentric colors against the dark, rank background of the river, but she chose to unsee me.

It's amazing what nurturing effects a few trees and some dirty water can have on the soul.  The rush was loud enough to drown out my thoughts for a moment... long enough for me to take a break from the questions, those cigarette burns on my brain.

Seeing an overpass with some bright, inviting graffiti, I walked on.  It became a challenge to keep from stepping on geese poop, and after a while I stopped trying.  Beneath the arch, I sang an old hymn I'd learned years ago.  It echoed slightly, and I wondered if anyone on the street above could hear it.  I wondered whether they liked my voice.

I brought my ipod, but never ended up using it.

Somewhere along the duck poop mine-field, I came to the conclusion that I've spent too much time doing a lot of useless things that seem necessary, but don't do much to make me or anyone else happy.  It's time I begin to resee my life, and make some adjustments as my heart begins to thaw from a difficult winter.

I had left campus with no destination in mind but distance.  As I climbed the hill up to the road home, I knew I had come to the river to be rewashed.

How you've changed.

I saw your face
in a photo in a showcase.
Your hair was longer than
it was when we first met.
You fit
into
a tiny 4x6.
(My mind is playing tricks cause I
remember you a bit
bigger
than that.)

The Stranger

I tapped your shoulder in the dark
and you turned cheerily,
spoke a greeting through the night
"And who, friend, might you be?"
I stalled reply.  Though I could see
your features clearly (with
the moonlight to my back), mine
were totally eclipsed.
So you began to guess at me,
a silhouette of black,
but soon forgot the game as we
wandered our way back
together. We went on regardless,
talked along the road,
and joked about our politics.
But as we neared the end,
I was grieved by all of this.
For we were better far
as strangers than we'd ever been
as what we were before.

(Potential Love) vs. Kinetic Love

There is but one way
in which love can be wasted:
and that (is
to never
give it.)