driftwood words and pumkin thoughts

I can say, right now, with reasonnable certainty, that nobody is thinking about me.

My mum is in the room, sleeping on the bed on the floor, gently breathing. My brother on his phone, my grandmother asleep too. My father, I have not thought of for a few days at least, I know he too is sleeping a few hundred kilometers from here.

David, sleeping or having sex. My other close but faraway friends I haven't spoken to in a few weeks. The ones I made on my journeys are icing sugar someone breathed on. Deliciously light and floating but impossible to retrieve. Maybe some guy from Okc is thinking about me.

And I think back to my short time in the Pyrenees, where eating pumpkin, leeks and sauté potatoes with soy sauce was the glory of the evening candle light wooden dinner table. Surrounded by these people I wanted dearly to impress, to love and to be loved by.
My heart -not that physical, blood riddled one- but that eery one that errs through my body. Seeks harbour in the least fortunate places at the wrong time of night.
That heart, is driftwood. Driftwood is so peaceful in our mythology of words. Yet so sad. We only see it once it drifts no more.
I wasn't thinking about my heart, during those pumkin fueld evenings where we worshiped the dirt on our dining table. I was thinking of sleeping, of making a fire, wondering whether I was pulling my share in the automnal tasks. I was moving slowly in my sleeping bag during our morning medidations.

A rythm is made of zeros and ones. If it were just ones, just positives, it would be a constant, unnoticeable thing. And life is the same. That pumpkin time was a one. Our hearts, physical, fall immobile to zero between every one. It's my heart, the eery one, drifting to a halt sometimes that makes me realise that at other times it was drifting through my body. This gives me hope to continue in the zero part of my life,  knowing, I have to go through this to get to one. It gives me hope at some hours anyway.

What do the thoughts become, those words we think at the cusp of sleep ? Tonight I wrote my driftwood heart down, others, I don't.
Tonight no one thinks of me, just as I don't think of them.