someone's death (Tolstoy) makes me restless. I pull my computer out,
my list of things to do out, I stare at the cafe's ceiling fan and
listen to the words of Radiohead.
Coming up the 14th St subway stairs, I had to sing the song in my head, quietly, to myself.
"You're going to reap just what you sow... You're going to reap just what you sow."
And, like that songwriter, I watch from afar as I sow the seeds of pain. I struggle with the image. I make plans, mortal plans. I resolve to sow something else. I will tell him to. I will sow a sublime happiness, success in self-expression, a gentle love of another, and peace with death. I will.
But, I see him (me) from afar sowing a field and I see his lips moving. He is muttering words as he places tiny pods of unhappiness in rows of black soil. What is he saying? The words are indistinct. I get closer. He is muttering these very words I am typing. I believe he is fertilizing each seed with empty promises. And I know I will reap just what he sows.
As I did yesterday; as I do today.
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