The summer sun is sinking low;
Only the tree-tops redden and glow:
Only the weathercock on the spire
Of the neighboring church is a flame of fire;
All is in shadow below.
~ HW Longfellow
In between internalizing Kafka’s Red Peter and Kholer’s Sultan, an insertion of a face always intervenes—that which I have memorized and instinctively got stuck in my head. I tell you, that has been the farthest thing on my mind. The possibility that one day, I will be singing a different tune. I hate changing minds. It keeps me off track, out of focus. I hate liking what I used to deride. I become a walking contradiction of myself. I hate routine but then again, consistency has always been the name of my game.
Tomorrow, I am sure I will be out of tune again.