This cafe, which is every cafe I've ever sat it. Here in this town where I've always been. Another friday night spent on this avenue of questions, ever seeking answers.
The rain falls quietly outside the cafe window, carefully making its trails down the glass. A soft pitter pat makes it past the door, just enough to make its presence known. In the desert the rain is so cleansing it demands a calm of us all.
A blues man sits alone in front of the spattered window, a guitar in his lap, and a harmonica draped comfortably about his neck. He is everything and he is nothing, here, as he fills this room with soulful renditions of old sad songs.
I share all of this. A good friend is by my side in this place, in this space, in this moment. She gives me so freely the invaluable gift of the knowledge that i am not alone.
So here I sit in this cafe, where I've always been, pen in hand,
in this old familiar game of trying to write and write and write, until something starts to make sense.
Another stroll down this avenue of questions ever seeking those same ellusive answers.
Tonight, however, armed with a friend, and a pen, I feel at peace here. The blues in the rain such a strange place to find sollace, but as he plays those familiar freight train sounds, somewhere in my soul I know that I'm ok.