No Journey

There has been no journey. Only time filled with motion. Endless days. Rammed together on calendar pages. The first few lined out. Before the marker ink dried in the tube. And futility and boredom. Abandoned the practice. / On the wall. A picture stares at me. A face from the day I decided. Not to flip to the next page. Yet, really there was no decision. It just happened that way. / I used to wear a watch. When I cared what time it was. But the journey that wasn't made required none.

There has been no movie. Only sound and faces. A stream of images. Newsreel frames clicking by. Black and white shadows. Celluloid dreams cracked at the edges. That I've hung onto. For forever and a day. / In my ear. Others call to me. Voices from an album. Frequently played when hope was high. Yet, the bird was molting even then. As the world slipped through my fingers. / I combed my hair. When I worried about my appearance. But the movie that wasn't filmed didn't care.

There has been no life. Only sweat drenched hours. Nightmare worries. Dreams that gave up the ghost long ago. Breathing and words. Notebooks of past remarks. Inscribed on yellowing scraps. Of ancient paper. / To my mind. I've lived the celibate. My arms empty. My nose pressed to a crack in the door. Yet, I never wavered in my belief. That longing was a prelude to love and living. / I spoke loudly. When I thought there was something to say. But the life that wasn't lived demanded silence.