Every body is busy. Every body keeps moving, some move backwards through their memories, going over small details, trying to pinpoint the one remembering that they can not release, let go of and move forward from in this moment to escape into the next moment that is waiting for them to grasp, maybe to only recommence their cycle, their habit in their heads.
Everybody has something to do. Except for me, I have nothing to do but lounge around the rose garden and turn into the Indian child I am. My skin is getting really dark fast, my freckles are more apparent, my thighs are tanned hides. The children are sleeping. I will wait for them to awake in the sun, this sun that is higher than the blue skies, higher than the airplanes that leave behind frothy milky tails that fade and disappear like I will one day when I get on an airplane and leave this place, this city, this rose garden, this language, these thoughts behind.
So be it, everybody will still be busy and I will still be sitting, watching, waiting for the world to begin.