another day
(le temps perdu, comme a dit marcel. la noche y el dia y el sol y la luna)
another year
(and we cant say anymore than just another day)

before you know it january is gone done and dusted and you blinked and missed it and now the last days of may lap at your feet in gentle caress of a tranquil sea and then it's the crisp nights of july and the tang of summer, of youth and folly

it's ragtime, baby.

sometimes in the night i feel it -a mad desire to dance

and this is only noteworthy in the sense that i am not much good at it. in fact, utter rubbish. never learnt.
perhaps too shy(most likely not, though), too clumsy and somewhat ashamed of it, afraid to bare my inadequacies to people who do that which i crave so very easily that it appears to be effortless, innate. i must have been born lacking that too. i listen to the music of the dances and the energy and the sheer beauty of people dancing for joy and life and laughter

and i am always always an spectator, looking in

(as through a glass, darkly)

it isn't all bad to live on the margins (but then again fish have no word for thirst)

and once in a while, if you try hard enough, people will come and visit your spot at the edge

but the edge is always shifting. people never linger long enough
and then the spot is no longer what it was

and there you are, constantly dissolving in an infinite series of yous that are
but aren't you