Mundane Mood

What shall I write? What can I write?
In this early morning serenity and quiet.
I notice my soft breath. My pen scratching random words on paper.
Mundane and trite so far.

Sharing dark coffee. Moving slightly about.
In the dim morning light.
Soft expressions.
Inability, reluctance, to say much. Too early to really talk.
A day with unknown possibilities.

To live authentically today.
To expose myself, to be vulnerable — to me. Others don’t matter so much.
Will I know, like, the results?
And how am to go about this?

Out and about. Doing this and that.
Interactions and transactions. Ebbs and flows.
Life’s nitty-gritty.

People nearby. Seeing and being seen?
Some attractive, some not so much. From whose perspective?
A matter of taste I suppose.

Then yoga!
Where shall me and my mat be? Questions about seeing and being seen.
Am I wanting to be out of site in the back? Or really into it towards the front? Or somewhere in between?
Do I make eye contact with some, a brief hello? Will they reciprocate?
The mindfulness of yoga?

Cafe bar.
Dim early evening light through the windows.
Glass of light wine, a bit of food.
Passing conversation and lives.

Do we flail in the guise of purpose?
Masked ego and habits, not knowing what we’re up to.
Or maybe not wanting to think about it.

We can be most purposeful.
Exceeding our expectations and hopes.
Doing that which we can hardly imagine, only dream about.
And yet also sometimes with much sacrifice affecting others, not just ourselves.
Is this also a kind of flailing in the guise of purpose?

In any event it doesn’t matter. Or does it?
Amidst the dim light of morning and evening.
The day with its possibilities? Whatever they may be or were.