1)”I could have made it” he thought with a despondent sort of desperation
Cars screamed past in an angry rush and it was unclear if he was
Pre-empting a suicide with a reflection on life’s missed glories
Or simply sad at a missed opportunity to cross the road

All our lives summed up such
Profound moments of confusion where it’s not clear if everything is on the line or really just nothing at all

2) Outside the window a man in a red jacket executes a perfect 180 on his moped, seamless fluidity, without ever taking his cell phone away from his ear

As I have grown older the edges have worn off of my emotions. I love life but no longer with the passionate hunger that I used to. I no longer fling myself desperately into love whenever I can but instead wait patiently for it.

I am worried that my writing has lost its edge too, if it ever had one. It was never great but it was at least desperate and clawing to come out of me. I wrote weeping sorrow and I wrote it well, almost as well as I wrote hurt and bitter lovesick scorn.

But I just don’t feel those things now and I am sad that I am no longer sad. I worry that contentment has left me a mediocre storyteller and even that worry is an echo of real worry. Maybe I’ll write something better, but maybe I won’t. I have an authitorial ennui.

So instead I sip my coffee and watch the gray rain and think about those who have come before, and I wonder what the greats did when they felt their edges dull and blunt.
I wonder what our parents and grandparents did and why no one ever told me about resignations poison when I was still young and could feel passionately about it

3)In the darkness
In the quiet time
In the between moments
There are these times which I fight so hard to avoid where time worry and thought slip away
There are quiet night sounds
There is my breathing and ocassional swallowing
There is a cool breeze and warm cats
I do not remember what I do for a living or what my hopefeardreams were
I only have this moment and for all I know this may be eternity.
I’m sleepy enough that it’s not boring and wakeful enough that my consciousness DOESNT spiral away as soon as my head hits the pillow
Just me and these sounds
Me and shallow thoughts
Just me and you

And even still at the end you creep back to me, never content to leave well enough alone and my dear worries sink back in, wakening me and shattering nirvana