As I see it, we all have our ways of doing things. And me, I write.
I write my thoughts to keep them from gravity. I write to replace thoughts with action and to stop the momentum of my ideas that tend to grow legs and run off into crazy directions. Hence, the anxiety, which is why I write to remove the shame or stigma of being nothing else but normal
(if there is such a thing).
I use this as a tool so that people like us will always have a place to go, no judgement, just a cup of coffee, some fresh air and a moment to ourselves without any static or outside interference.
I try to reach you sometimes. I extend my hand, although, I wonder if you will pull away or flinch; as if there is something out there looking to hurt you, or, perhaps, this is your reaction because you’ve been hurt before, so your initial response is to flinch from the hand, even if it seems to be the hand that feeds you.
You and me both, we are all too weary sometimes; weary from the travel and weary from the worry of what comes next. I see us as seasoned, which means we have flavor and could never be bland or plain, or better yet, we could never be uninteresting. Not even if we tried.
I see us as travelers. We’ve gone around the world more times than the sun, and yet, we’ve never left this spot long enough to notice the sun never moves. It is us that moves, even when we sit still.
And us, we are the chemistry, We are the weight and the matter of everything we’ve endured. Yet, we are more because we are the breath and the lungs and the blood and the heart. We are all.
I see us as searchers; always looking for an answer, always trying to find a resource and always searching for a way to solve the irrational tensions that come along with overthinking, fears and insecurity.
Meanwhile, there is nothing wrong with us or anyone else. There is nothing wrong with not feeling “Part of” or different. There is nothing wrong with celebrating the difference between our features and finding acceptance within ourselves. It’s okay to not be okay. And it’s okay to be as we are, which is perfect if you ask me.
There is nothing wrong with us at all, not in any way, whatsoever. It’s just the tapes we play. It’s the language we’ve heard. It’s the lessons we’ve learned from inaccurate teachers and thus, we appropriated this as our truth.
This is why we flinch. This is why we resist the hand and why we are afraid to rejoice or smile because deep down, we’ve been programmed to believe that the poem is true and that “Nothing gold can stay”.
But hey, it’s like I’ve said to you before – In the land of interpretation, misconception is king (or queen, depending upon the circumstances).
This is you, me, us, and anyone or everyone out there that are alive in this world and looking for something to answer the long list of ongoing questions. Some of our questions are different though (Aren’t they?) and some of our answers are the same. And yet, here we are in the same place at the same time, moving on this big conveyor belt, which I call Project Earth.
Sometimes I dig back into my older thoughts to see if what I wrote then is still relevant now – and of course it is to some degree because life is still life, I am still me, you are you and though our impulses might have change, our core is the same; always looking for an answer, always trying to catch the sunrise and always looking for a way to soothe the irrational tensions to calm the overactive thought machine.
I found this old poem of mine. I remember where I was. I remember what I was going through, I remember a loss and a heartbreak, a tragedy, a sunset, a taste of redemption and the desire to make things right.
Want to read it?
Here it goes
I know a little girl that collects rain in bottles.
Says she wants to keep something from Heaven because,
“That’s where God lives”.
I say that’s beautiful . . .
In spring, the little girl collects dandelions.
She picks the kind with feathers.
Then she closes her eyes to make a wish, she whispers,
then she blows on the feathers
with hopes to make her wish come true
Says, “My Daddy told me if I wish real hard,
all of my wishes will come true.”
When I was little, The Old Man
tried to teach me about the different types of clouds.
Said, “If you know what you’re looking at,
you can tell what kind of weather we’re gonna to have.”
It seems I have forgotten the difference between
cumulus clouds and stratus,
which means I can’t see the future.
Weatherman says it’s going to rain tomorrow.
Think I’ll put a bottle outside to catch something from heaven
because that’s where The Old Man lives.
I see this as my moment (You know?)
to take the stage and give it a shot.
Why shouldn’t I?
Just because someone says, “Now isn’t the time,”
doesn’t mean I should listen.
It’s not like they will have my best interest at heart,
and let’s face it, if I sit still, I do nothing –
If I move forward, I do something
As best as I can tell;
Something is better than nothing
I saw a group of old friends not too long ago
Age stepped in.
I could see that.
Too much time went between us.
I get that too.
That doesn’t mean everyone grew up though.
I passed them as if I didn’t recognize anyone
No one recognized me either
maybe we were all still playing the same game
in our 40’s . . . .
Pretty soon, the poles will switch
our half of the hemisphere will tilt away from the sun
and grow colder.
It doesn’t bother me;
the colors of fall or the shedding leaves.
I dig it, if I’m being honest
I love this time of year.
I feel as if the summer heat gives way,
so we can rest from the constant pressure of being, “In,”
and the fashions subside to
a knitted sweater, or a cup of pumpkin spice hot chocolate,
and a smile.
The beaches will vacate.
The sands will empty and all that remain
are the vacant remnants of summer,
which are the indented footprints in the sand.
Somewhere, someone is combing a beach
with a metal detector.
Maybe they do this
with hopes of finding someone’s forgotten fortune.
Otherwise, the empty sands are worth so much more.
I prefer it this way though: vacant and empty.
I can hear the ocean and the surf
In the distance, gulls follow outgoing commercial boats,
and as for the sunrise . . .
there is nothing else like a sunrise on the beach
You . . .
Your king is weary of his conquests.
And you, the queen, are weary of travel
Your mind needs something synthetic
to feel pure again (or whole)
. . . I know.
Your search to feel better is overwhelming
So you give in
You swallow the capsule to be free
. . . I get that
You trade your empire for tiny bits of beautiful torture
You welcome the machines that ease the spine
and sink you down into the pasture of your mind
(So you can rest for a while)
You want peace of mind
without the constant conflict
. . . I’ve been there
I used to do that on B17th Street in Rockaway
The mind detaches from body
like rainfall changes the landscape-
like a droplet dangles from a leaf
An army of pills rescue the infants crying in your mind,
which sort of bathes you in sunlight
and softens the tragic blow of your missing rainbows
. . . I know
I felt that way too
My first step is short of the next,
which bothers me a little
because I am unsure of where to turn
If you ask me, “what have I done with my yesterday?”
Maybe I’ll smile
or I’ll laugh
I mean, here it is 4:00am
I’m dreaming of pillows I can’t sleep on
and wishing my head would slow down long enough
to close my eyes.
I can’t sleep
I guess I’ll write for now
I guess I’ll add this to something I call,
“Bedtime Stories for the Insomniac”
Know what I mean?