So many days, oh so many days
seeing you so tangible and so close,
how do I pay, with what do I pay? 
-Pablo Neruda


How to assuage the bewildered heart, beating and constant, arbitrary in its evenness, questions aswirl in the rhythm. 


The eyes open to daylight, determined to drink in a stretch of the view out front. The mind lingers in the background, seeking what isn't there to be sought, grappling with its cerebrations, nursing unforgotten wounds, lingering where it should no longer be, insisting on remembered sunsets on forgotten places, wishing on dead stars, still flickering with waiting hopes. 


To take a step forward, or keep pressing on to the past minute, hour, year--


one finds the self in the middle of things.