Too small to see.

I lie here in the still quiet of Slidell's Midnight, and reflect. I think I was a bout eight when I began taking myself too seriously. 16 years later, I wrote about it in my iPad as I sat in my car on the corner of Washington and Prytania next to the Lafayette Cemetary. Writing about it didn't make it go away. Who knew? So much has happened here, and I sometimes feel that I'd give up every minute for a day on the warm river rock, a day spent wrapped in sun-browned skin and raven hair like a curtain of midnight set against the backdrop of the noonday sun. Like a dumbass, my common sense reflects at this sentimental idiocy. Time, King said, is a face on the water. He never explained what that meant, but I think I know. The world moves on, and one can either choose to tube up and give it a float, or tread backward like a pussy and slip beneath the surface without ever finding out what lies around the riverbed. I think I'll go ahead and tube. Much as it makes me sad to see the beautiful landscape slip out of sight behind me, I know the best views are as yet unseen, waiting further down. Hella deep, brah. Hella deep.