Sometimes, I can't decide:
how to feel, how to act, where to turn, if that red light really mattered.
That red light meant a lot of things to a lot of different people.
Whole foods, a whole lofestyle of bean sprouts and organic milk,
meant to inspire the mind, body, and soul. It only inspires my wallet to get up, shake it's head at me, and wander away for a better life, to spread it's whole grain soul in some other way, hoping for some more dough at another time.
To you, my mind was elsewhere. It always is. Hopping, skipping, jumping, screaming, sobbing, pleading for some rest but ignoring the obvious solution. Always is. The truth just sounds different.
To me, I didn't mean it, I promise. I never do. I rarely know what I want, when I want it, even though all I want to pretend to be is someone who knows the perfect ending to a day, perfect response to a statement, perfect way to elicit spontaneous vocabulary. That's it, really.
To that red light, it didn't know any better. It holds a rhythm, it's own rhythm, one that doesn't change regardless of the same sunset it sees every night, the people's cars who drive by (especially the Jewish ones), the running mothers and the hustling babies. It doesn't change for nobody, no how, no woman, no cry.