It is closer to the months of summer now
and perhaps we are closer to the sun yet,
pieces of us
are growing more distant from each other.
I can see us now, as we were, a long time ago
in a lifetime, far, far away.
I can see the past come up in random moments
where random faces of once-known people
pass me by like perfect strangers,
which is fine, I say
because hey . . .
this only shows that our time was temporary.
No, really, it is.
It only goes to show
that people are often temporary—
or “should I say momentary”
and life is only situational.
I have come to understand
that our kingdoms will undergo changes,
and sometimes,
the changes can be predicted and expected;
sometimes, these changes are known or seen,
or more frequently, and often unexpected,
the walls around our castles will move
forward and back, as we move from one place
to another.
I see us this way,
just like the borders around countries in Europe,
which have changed throughout the years,
and often, our kings and queens
will only reign for short periods of time,
or like the cycles of the moon,
or the seasons of winter, spring, summer and fall
the cycle of our empires will vary.
Our flags will rise and fall
just like the tides of the ocean
who rise and fall
to act in unison and represent the rise and fall
of our Great Mother’s chest—
breathing.
It is not beyond me
to be drawn into the shallows
and drown in the puddles
of my own misconceptions.
It is far from beyond me
to be anything less than human,
which I am, human as ever,
flawed, of course
and beautiful by nature—or more to the point,
if I am unique in my skin
and yes, if I am spawned like the son,
and reborn again on a daily basis,
or should I arise like an early sun,
or should I form this way,
like the orange yolk,
born afire as a distant star
held in the palm of God the Father’s horizon,
and should I give in to the fallen ideas
or should I excuse myself
or pardon my weakness and become
either spiritually or otherwise, educationally lazy;
then yes, it is easy to sink and more,
it is easy to drown
in the swamps of emotional quicksand.
I am the one who has become lost and found
and like the lifespan of different kingdoms,
my castle walls have changed shape and size,
and moved forwards and back,
just like the imaginary lines
that border between countries
and keep us at war.
But rather, I would prefer a moment of peace.
I want to find a quiet place
the same as the dark would call for more silence
and in the restless hours of sleepless abandon,
I would rather rest than overthink—
or, if at all possible,
I would rather surrender my sword
and retire my mask and shield
to otherwise find peace in my kingdom within
at ease . . .
However,
It is only by fate that we interact or meet and too;
it is equally by fate that our paths intersect
and overlap or connect to run parallel
or split.
This is where fate and destiny step in.
But to be clear,
I have no say in fate or destiny
because I am told their plans have been made
and the deal is already set;
yet I admit to this now—that I am looking to pull off a trick,
or maybe I can bluff a hand (or two)
and if I can,
or if the powers that be
are willing to negotiate
or compromise
and strike a deal
and if the various kings or queens
will allow for a truce, even if it risks their own borders
or if we can find a moment of peace—then yes,
I would rather leave the past behind.
I would rather free the warn soldiers
who battled too long, and bled too often
for no good reason
aside from pride,
and if possible,
I would rather remove myself from the old equations,
so that my future can add up differently
and perhaps our enemies
can be more like forgotten strangers,
and then, maybe . . .
the unarmed man
can walk safely down 116th
without thinking of the old urban battles
that took place back in 1989.
Man . . .
the past is a trip.
It is amazing to me
how chaos is addicting
or how misery loves company
yet, no one wants this—but still,
we set the tables for the unwanted guests
and we welcome them
and their intrusions
like a dysfunctional dinner on Sunday
where everyone yells at each other
and shouts throughout their meal.
The Written Addiction 