Focal Point

Hurtling down tracks into the black unknown. Out the window, patterns collide, coalesce. The past slips away, clear and bright, muddled and missing. Neurons firing, consciousness tilts and darts, racing through focus. Soul surfers in the moment we all are.

An eyeblink. Chances and opportunities. A smile leaves the station. Returned but to be lost. A phone buzzes. A vibration swallows an afternoon and yields a longboard dry. A rose riot burns across desert sky, ignored by passengers, those intent on scorning the needles and thorns.

“Excusez-moi,” the girl in uniform says.

I smile. “C’est bon.” What’s a picture anyway?

Photo is copyright by Gustavo Peres.

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