Expressionless

Ice wine and Belgian beer sit, warming themselves, slowly eking out a meager thermodynamically-challenged existence. Interminable. As time goes on, these pretty presents of an ephemeral/ephemeric celebration feel themselves decaying, decrying, with each passing moment becoming less the delicious beverages that they once were. I find myself perversely sympathetic to their degradation. They inspire me.

Biochemically powered, enzymatically enabled, driven by a desperate need for self-destination, I leap forth! In comparison! But to do what? To think and to do and, inevitably, to be the expressed and expressionless. To exist. To act, and irrationally, to justify. To prove to myself that I am autonomous while driven. I am a product of post-destination, a place where you follow from whence you came, sighing and satisfied with walking down the sidewalk and seeing roses, Queen Anne's lace and purple strawflowers, smelling the end of September while listening to the tiny drifts of yellow leaves crunch beneath wandering feet. I love these flowers because my mother grew them. I am happiest in the season in which I was born. And I will not believe you if you tell me this, even as I make my own inevitable way. I am a Calvin-compensated self-activating force majeur.

My day has inspired me: somewhere, I lost a touch of stomach flu; I opened gifts; I joined a gym; I made plans to see my Mother; I lipped rice paper and tofu; sketched a bike; pulled weeds and wanted to write but had nothing to say. Giovanni brought me Kazuo Ishiguro to remind and delight me as I discover that I still remember French. I find my verbal gesticulations cause my roommate to giggle; her laughter is pleasant. I can't make anything coherent from these observations, yet. But I am their master. I will wait, consuming, collecting, controlled, collected, composed, composing and patient.

And still the beer is sitting, STILL IS SITTING, ever warming, ever still, as it waits upon the countertop, expressionlessly anticipating a destiny that is yet to be fulfilled.