I thought I would go mad if I did not have time to myself, so I left and walked back and forth that street that was far from smooth, not intending to listen, or see, or feel. Even the moon wasn’t sure of what it wanted to be–or do, even if it couldn’t do anything. I wondered if people still took walks at night, wondered if they too felt they needed to, wondered if they saw beyond what I couldn’t and just wouldn’t tell me. I wonder. And that is something. Still we are convinced of nothing. Nothing has swallowed us and the histories we’ve created–the histories we’ve used as excuses to lie on the ground in somebody’s arms. The dog barks at me because I am a stranger. Because I am strange, or stranger, and I lower my eyes when husband and wife pass by, jogging silently and staring at the path ahead, and I wonder if I am stranger for forgetting how to say “good evening” or thinking it rude. I am tired–tired of the “I”, the incommunicable “I” that has been replaced by you and hides behind a “we”. And when I passed the house and heard a man shouting, most likely scolding a child, I thought life was beautiful and people were amazing for somehow being able to show affection while shouting. They say we only see the beauty of a moment when it’s all over. This morning I wondered if life was one beautiful lasting moment. What am I supposed to think? Will I see this as beautiful someday too? It’s like music and cannot be seen, only heard, except the persistent clanging of the present drowns it (or am I drowning?). Perhaps one day I will get it to stop. Perhaps someday a stranger with better hearing will describe it to me by living it for me. What’s the point of living poetry if it isn’t lived with another? But we want the poetry only for ourselves. So it becomes a game, and we forget its nature as we see ourselves in one another, thinking we have seen the face of God. So I snip the thread and toss the ball of yarn, tangled and dirty and no longer mine. And I make my way to the structure where I was young–the structure I am in for the people, the noisiest ones on the street, but pleasantly so. I turn the lock in its place, shutting out and shutting in. There’s more to life than my own.