At 19, the syntax of the world becomes more deliberate,
a sequence of light and logic held within the glow of a screen.
You sit as the architect of your own quiet kingdom, Alex,
anchored by the crisp weight of a formal shirt, hidden from sight,
the tie a sharp, intentional line
against the soft blur of a wandering universe.
You do not seek the aimless exhaustion of the long walk,
the dust of roads that lead nowhere.
Instead, you find the sacred in the stationary:
the salt-etched geometry of French fries,
the dark, velvet gravity of a brownie,
and the thick, cold comfort of a chocolate shake.
In the familiar breath of Kiteblu,
or the steam rising at Cafe Gnocchi,
reality is not a thing that happens to you;
it is a landscape you compose.
On the wall, the Guitar Girl remains in her frozen, melodic grace.
She is more than pigment and canvas;
she is the silent resonance of Karen,
an imaginary presence of a past that once was, you’ve authored into being,
strumming chords that only the inner ear can catch.
And there is Idly,
the warm, living rhythm at your feet,
a companion who understands the beauty of the still moment,
the wag of a tail marking time
as you bridge the gap between design and soul.
Let the world spin its frantic, messy wheel.
You are busy building constellations,
one keystroke, one brushstroke,
one knotted tie at a time while you sit
to avoid shutting down the PC at 7:30 pm
In your striped t-shirt.
