I wish to trudge the mud

A distant rumble of a car engine
A whisk of wind
A bird chirping
The flip flop of my flip flops fittingly sounding off as I walk
The sun is high.
The day is hot.
Few leave their air-conditioned caves,
But I walk.

At night now I hear the dull roar of a plane overhead.
Those same cars whish by.
I hear the hum of the air-conditioners.
But otherwise still night
The birds have gone to sleep.
There are no crickets in this town.
Two young girls peddle by on bikes gossiping about the inane frivolities of a somewhat pointless life.
And then the sprinklers go off giving life to this desert.
The cool water makes the air thick and refreshing.

The day as always, has been full.
Full of work mostly, and little reprieve.
I hope to one day get a little and I think the day is vastly approaching.
I see the twilight of my summer work just as I see its promise emerge.
It has been interesting, consuming, and altogether a bittersweet symphony.
I don't want to think too much on it now because that is all I do.

I'd like to escape life for a while.
Run free from the restricting bonds of time to do anything or nothing and not feel guilt, pain, or pleasure.
To be free of everything with meaning would give way to nothingness.
It would be drowning.
It would suffocate life and make it worthless.
Oh worthlessness! I envy thee.
Well, we can't have that.
So onward I trudge.
Wishing it were through mud, but only sand in this desert.

Lost Art

It's not like I was some magical potion that was irresistible to all who tried.
But she was the only one who didn't seem to fall under my spell.
I suppose that's what made her all the more attractive.
She wasn't stunning or strong, but delicately nuanced.
A rouge flavor that escapes palatal description, but once tasted becomes all that one wants.
But it becomes a man to differentiate among a want, a need, and perhaps an obsession.
The former two are healthy, and the latter frightening.

I don't even really think on her anymore now.
As I look back I realize I only do so to understand a pattern.
I thought I had an art perfected to the hilt,
But she maintained a demeanor that made each brush stroke like painting on sand.
Not a sand that is static on paper, but a shifting dune that enveloped me, swallowing my art forever.
It was the dethroning of a system.
But 'why?' is the question that makes it all worthwhile.
An enigma that escapes me, just as she did.