Saturday Morning
Repost from old blog, 2/4/2008
I used to lay in bed on Saturday mornings. I could feel the summer sun shining through my window. I listened to the sound of children playing, dogs barking, cars rolling down the road. Life happening. There was too much. I was paralyzed. I wanted to experience all of it, but I didn’t know where to start. So all I did was lie in bed and listen.
I used to gaze out my bedroom window at the horizon. I could see pretty far, to a ridge of trees high above my little rural town. I’d focus on the highest tree, and wonder where it was. How did you get there? What would I see if I got there?
I used to stand in the dining room of the restaurant where I bussed tables. I would watch the hordes of Sunday post-church customers – old ladies and old men – and I would think, these people have all had sex, and I haven’t.
I used to hold this image in my mind: a group of kids, my age, driving in a car at night, rock music streaming out the window. Orange paths of lit cigarettes as they pass by. One girl has her hand out the window, sailing on the night air.
For most of my life, I was convinced that everybody else was living more fully than me.
5 Comments
Feb 08, 2008 @ 07:32:00
I know that feeling all too well.
Feb 08, 2008 @ 20:03:00
Thanks so much for responding.
Feb 10, 2008 @ 15:30:00
Thank you for writing this blog so I can respond.
Mar 23, 2010 @ 11:57:51
How do you feel about that now?
I’m fascinated about the process of aging. Sometimes I look at people in the subway and try to imagine them younger, the skin getting firmer, the lines softening and their worries disappearing. Because I’m sure that even for a moment, these persons were wide eyed innocents with the whole world to conquer (cheesy, I know).
Mar 23, 2010 @ 16:19:58
Helio, I still feel like this a lot but not as much as I used to.