waters of september

A stick, a stone,
It’s the end of the road,
It’s the rest of a stump,
It’s a little alone…
(“Waters of March” translation by Tom Jobim himself)

A yes, a no,
It all plays in my head,
The door to the world,
It is here in my bed.

A coal in the fire,
The last of the sun,
The breeze and the stars,
The day when it’s done.

I am here. It is nearly fall now.

I am here, always here, as these dramas unfold. Each of them I tell here, in their own story, here, one by one. A certain room, a certain day, a certain action…

I think beyond these walls, wander out into the world and into my life, far off into the world. And yet it all comes back here, to this room.

Here, where I sleep, where I read, where I write, where I fuck, where I dream.

Desire builds–oh yes! Is satisfied–yes, yes. And we come out of it a little different each time: catharsis. Pleasure; a lesson learned.

But can life exist fully within this space? Or do the memories and feelings I hold here and only here imprison me?

Today I dream of all sorts of things, things beyond these walls: the birds, the sea, the pedal of my bicycle, a necklace. I think of the many wonders in a day, the things I run across walking, watching.. a cloud, a piece of cloth, written words on a page, a song. I dream, dream.. I watch the puddles, the water on the street in recent days, the purple sky just hours ago, the warmth of a hand. I dream of more.

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It’s the end of all strain,
It’s the joy in your heart.

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