an attempt at conversation

       I feel like I should write…but there’s just one problem.  I’m realizing when one writes, be it blog, poetry, journal, or story it normally revolves around one’s self…one’s experiences, thoughts, ideas, dreams, disappointments etc.   But I’m tired of me.  It’s not a matter of self-deprecation; I just don’t want to talk about me anymore.

            So what should I say?  What can I feel capable of writing.  I have no knowledge or authority over any other thing in this world.  Everything I know incorporates me in to it: my response to it, my view of it.  I don’t want to talk about my past…I have not desire to muse over my future.   

            Can we talk about you?  Can we talk about life that moves on around me and without me.   Can we talk about the earth, that with a closer look, one can see teeming with life.  The plants that work hard to absorb the sun.  Their roots that push into the earth, stretching their limbs to a comfortable sprawl…they own the dirt.   The ants…the ants busily run to and fro across the soil, up and down the trees, around and across that discarded beer bottle.  They have places to be, tasks to perform.  That ladybug there, it crawls up and down that single blade of grass, somehow delicately balancing itself as it meanders the thin tight rope.  What is it doing?  Is it just out for a stroll?  Is it trying to find a good spot to bathe in the morning light?  And you.  You walk by, looking, but are you seeing?  When you see the sun, are you appreciating its warmth…or is it filling you with summer nostalgia?  Is the swaying grass merely a part of your landscape or does it stand out to you, calling out for bare feet and deep sighs.  Do you think about the life around you or are you overwhelmed with your own uncontrollable life.   No, maybe you have too much control on your life.  No, let’s not go there.  I just want to know you…to know life.  To get away from me.