The Least Memorable Part of the Day

Yachats, Oregon

We stare, blankly ahead. In front of us, a beaming red ball hanging by a line. The light reflecting through the red- tinted glass is the subject for our stare, yet our eyes seem to wonder further than the subject we wait on.

​It’s a new day, it’s early. By now we have mixed together a concoction of something hot, something awakening, some ritualistic drink to get us to where we need to be. By now we have laid rest to the competitive thought pattern eager to convince us to stay.

By now, we know the circuitous games our mind likes to take us through, but we’ve called them games, so we remind ourselves of what is rational.

So we dress ourselves in a similar pair of pants, a slight variation of shirt and a pair shoes that does this job. And we find ourselves at this light, the same red light we stop at every morning. And in that blank stare, not a lot is going on, in fact it’s probably the least memorable part of the day.

We could have been stopped, staring forward for at least a minute, or perhaps it was three, it’s hard to tell. The normalcy of this ritual drowns any recollection of any profound thought at this time, or any noticeable happenings to the left and right of the stare.

Without acknowledgement of any lapse or change, cars to our side start moving, and naturally, we step on the gas and excel into the communal movement forward, into the day.

Eventually, we arrive, all of us sharing this light. The buzzing vehicles along the route practically propelled us forward with their wind.

For all we know, that’s what happened, because as far as we’re aware, we arrived. Just like we did yesterday, and the day before.

​Somehow we just keep showing up into this repetitive cycle some call life.