Que hora es?

Time.

I am the rider of time. Flowing directly on the wave of some inside joke, the rotten truth of the game. I never wander, as there is an inexorable lean toward the center of the channel, the undeniable. I stupidly stick my head above the water of time from time to time and mistakenly assume I am out of the sea. Vast and unspecific, it’s greatness insurmountable. Hell hath no fury like the unheeding shrug of the heave of time. Passes like you weren’t even there.

So, I ride. And observe. Cherished misery and the heartbreak kid talking on the corner, private now public. Even the panhandlers can’t bear to engage. The whole street is uncomfortable. Grab ass in the park, tequila drunks braying life at the living. The steady drone of singing Vespas approach and fade. Tight lipped conservatives standing unsteadily on a disappearing world. All of it is evident. And it all takes time. Memories and dreams of the future are the food of the soul. My ride  takes me back and forth across the span of me. I see the path before my foot is raised to drop upon it. Often, I am in the middle of a defining experience that comes to fruition and months are connected, forming an oxbow in the route. It can be disconcerting. Generally I feel that these are positive indicators of the correctness of the tiller. Specifically, I realize that there is no tiller and my lack of control for the entire scope of this ocean, this terrible sea, Time.