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Days made of butter

This has happened to me a few times. For awhile in Hanoi, the days just seemed to melt away. Mornings, evenings, reading, listening to music. It seemed the days were so sweet but they were not assigned and I just wandered through. I don't wear watches or pay attention to clocks too much because I want the days to be nothing more than the rotation of sunrise to set and then beautiful Vallarta nights.

I always stop at the end of some period of time. I gauge my moments of the day. The discussion with the two women at breakfast, then the long time of just sitting and considering naught. Music always seems to play back there somewhere. I do some reading but the social consequences or discussion or replying on micro.blog is lost on me. I love to write but there are times when the whole milieu of social discourse is lost and I watch the sun strike the mountains in the mornings. Like a wonderful knife cutting through. Rendering the morning in some blues and pinks and oranges. The lady selling tamales goes by. A song plays. I don't understand the words but it sounds both sad and optimistic. A car jumps down the cobblestone street. I can sit on the balcony for all this or sit in the room. One pane of glass away.

The days do slip away like butter in a pan. Sizzling, then golden and full of memories and moments going by. Sometimes WhatsApp talks to me. A person here or there asks.

Hello! I hope you are well. I miss you. Please message me

I look at the message and it is a person from Vietnam. I always respond but the timezones conspire.

So I let the days slip away. Because days are not real. And I just never really know if it is Sunday or some day in-between all the days that does not exist to our puny attempts at defining time. My mentor in archeology would tell me,

archeology? It is the mind wielding a trowel

But we never did excavate ideas or thoughts or feelings.

It is much easier to just let our concept of days to pass. Feel the AC and listen. Yeah. There is not a thing worth doing badly or well. Tasks? Projects? I gave them all up. And the days just wheel into other days that have no real meaning. No reality. No thing. Brought together no thing is nothing.

Butter.

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