in the palms of my looked-down-upon,
lake-shoreline rubble rides, rising then falls.
pulsing from the drum beats of wind pressure,
far out on the lake surface in front of me.
I gaze up, unto the lake-reflected sky.
distorted but it is an I-max, full screen presenting.
it has the subtle turbulence of holographic moodiness.
not mine, but passively observing,
in the way that I am unsure about it.
I really don’t know
what any other person’s mood ever is,
when facing it, in front of me.
I would like to say, I feel alone here,
watching the lake, talking to itself
in idle lip service with up and down chatter.
but somehow, I am embracing this as deeply unknown.
with questions I would ask of myself,
as a way of referencing a sense of being self-aware.
none of this is making sense,
but almost as an idling, the self-talk continues.
I am, I guess forever restless about being a person.
it is unsettling in the presence of others.
I don’t see why this lake setting should be this way.
maybe because I have been here a thousand times before.
and so familiarity is this illusion as personage to me.
I suspect that forty years from now,
I will still remember this setting, its intimacy,
the sense of struggles reflected, at being a person.
maybe then I will know more
as translated into a calmness and a presence.
I now wish for that to be so.
How, for that to happen, I have no clue.
Some things will happen, between now and then.
I would wish for that to be so, for then.
my future looks back at me.
and with an empty gaze, I look forward,
living into it . . .
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