Tuesday, May 15, 2012

The Boxer

You know how it feels when you're squinting at the midsummer sun and the mp3 player's playing The Boxer with that extra verse and you're saying bourgeoisie to yourself because you now know how to push out your lips together in a French way (and you secretly like this about about yourself), and you suddenly hear your name called out in the middle of a busy road in a voice, unfamiliar but familiar.

And you turn, and you see that a moment, that you placed five years ago in a brown-diary tucked away with a photograph of your two-year self, is waving at you.

You wave back. By jove, you SHOULD wave back!

And then before closing your eyes, just before you decide to empty your everyday sepia onto your pillow, you take that moment out and you caress it. You caress it like you remember the wind caressed your old lover's hair on stormy days. You hold it tight once, just once - very tight - and then, you let it go. And you feel lighter.

And then, slowly, you start feeling loved.

"Now the years are rolling by me
They are rockin' evenly
I am older than I once was
And younger than I'll be and that's not unusual.
No it isn't strange
After changes upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same"

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