But as I sit here I am equally in another place not all together real. It is the memory of one branch that never happened, a simple future not meant to be. I pass him unnoticed in the night. I do not stop for early morning passion on the deserted streets. I keep walking to the bed of an ex-lover yet to leave. I sleep and dream of this day of ocean winds riding ahead of marine fog and old women scoffing. The sun skews perception: this is not precisely me. I am alone and writing but I am not looking up. My curiosity is for the hidden story on the page and not in the inquisitiveness of observation. I am not noticing the hideous mismatched stripes everywhere or the Giants' fan winking. Not I is scribbling some other story I cannot read or decipher.
But that is not me nor am I there. I am simply here with a bit of coffee left in the cup and a boy passin by in a hot pink t-shirt wearing a sparkly blue Diego backpack.
I like it here even with the scoffing women. I like how the sun casts long and the man preaching salvation keeps moving along. I like the briskness of afternoons in early fall captured between the ocean and the bay. It is magical here, and I can imagine. It is why I visit and remember the not to be futures: to feel.