ballpoint without a point; your pen is running out.

above the building - next door - sf, ca

existential thinking starts innocently enough.  you're walking.  it's beautiful outside--the kind of pre-fall five o'clock that is still soft around the edges.  you look up, naturally, to admire the clouds and how they seem to hold the sunlight from within.  in looking upward, giving half notice to those who tread in your wake, you realize that you're yourself.  in your own head.  thinking your own thoughts.  on your own journey.  and the others, they have theirs.  now you're breathing, consciously so--holding the air as the clouds do the light.  you can't imagine doing anything other than what you're doing; breathing, walking, thinking, being.  but it all ends eventually, and you hope that your awareness of that will somehow buy you a pass to an acceptable end.  one in seventy, eighty years when things make more sense.  when you've seen your share of skies.  is that all really?  life measured by days and nights and the time that passes between the two?  it's all too much.  all you can do is know that you're present.  the pondering will drive you crazy.  you've got to make your brain stop, so you shake your head as to settle the sandstorm.  and just like that, you're there.  twenty-four.  seeing and stepping with the satin breeze at your back.