time to write more. It's also time to iron clothes for work, and time to shower and shave, and time to trim and dye my beard, and time to do laundry and clean the house. It's time to do a lot of things, but I will write.
I couldn't find the key to the bathroom at work yesterday, but the bathroom light was off so I knew no one was in there. I tried the door and it was unlocked, and the key was in the sink. Just at the moment I was reaching down to pick up the key, I thought of someone; I don't remember who. But it was someone from years ago, a mere acquaintance who I hardly knew. That is why I remember the remembering, because the thought came completely from out of the clear blue, with no anchor in that moment, seemingly propelled from elsewhere.
The memory felt good. It must have been someone I liked, a little. Perhaps the old eccentric that is my mind knew something about this person of which I was unaware, and preserved this obscure memory for my later consumption--later, when I would have the time. Maybe he (it probably was a 'he') was liking me back when we brushed past one another, and I just didn't know it then. Probably it was around that time when I had bolted shut my heart's door, when I was kicking that door hard from within, angry that it was locked, and at the same time glad the locks were keeping me safely contained. Probably he was the one who knocked on those giant steel doors, a tiny tap-tap-tap from outside that I heard above all the huge hammering noise I was making on the inside.
he's undoubtedly gone by now, though I still have not opened the door to see. There's just the echo of that unbearably soft knock on my main door, an echo that has long outlived all the noise within, and long outlived its time.
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