CXCV - on a Monday late afternoon

I went running this late afternoon after work, as I usually do on Mondays now.

It has become a good sort of rhythm. I like doing this, week in, week out.

It just is, for now, it just is. I run because I am, and on the rare occasion, hard, because it happens to be what I want to be.

I had to stop at a traffic junction, underneath a large flyover. I usually say long swear words when I have to stop. Where I stopped, there was a gap dividing the lanes spread out above. It was a concrete duo-lith, well, a shallow Y-shaped structure. It had in its centre a large rectangular inset about sufficient to fit a statue of an inconceivably tall man. Taller than the tallest man you can think of, and broader. If you stopped for a second and focused on just that idea, one step removed from just the right concentration, you might imagine being in front of an altar, stately in its existence, in its unassuming, un-intricate way. But carrying that on, the altar might just as well have been neglected for some time, un-noticed. All around its centre a running of dark green vinelings grew, upwards, towards the light, clinging with resilient tendrils along each hook and cranny of the roughened concrete surface. Some, not many, had made it to the top, drawn always to the block of light cast by the sides of the Y. You might cast your eyes towards those few little leaves that had made it to the very top of the concrete, basking tenderly in the still warm glow of the sky, framed against the gentle blue of the horizon. The curves of the vinelings tracing arcs along the concrete surface might make you think of the beauty of nature, of the laws of physics, of life that desires to live, all the time, all the time of time. Did those leaves win, reaching the top? Were those the only winners, and so the rest? And after a little contemplation the truth might be that existence is, in this way, its own reward. And so perhaps there is no necessary reason why life bothers to be.

Isn't it strange? Today I told the moon of my crush, of the adolescent longing in my heart. The wonderful woman I see on Sunday. Mr Moon, I told you my secret. My only regret is that I were not forty years old, and I would sweep you off your feet.

The moon may appear to stand still in the sky. But clearly it moves. It waxes and wanes, and it appears in different positions. More importantly, if it weren't moving, it would be hurtling right into the ground at my feet. The moon is always moving, even though it appears to stay right there. Even when it always appears to stay in one spot when the car is moving. I wonder how big the moon is, whether I could go around it on my own. I wonder what the earth looks like, whether it is green and blue with white splotches. That's my favourite part of the day, looking at the sky.