It is mild today, and still warm, yet,
this is more like a testament or a qualifying moment,
as if to be an elegy or serious reflection of say,
the tiny bits of mercury that rise and fall
like the seasons and the tide, which range from warm to cool—and still,
another year has been tallied
and calculated.
We are still alive, at least I think so.
I think the question makes sense to ask,
what does it mean to really be alive? If we are alive, does everyone know what it means to live?
What is it?
What does it mean to be happy?
What happens after the sun evolves In the morning
and when the yolk of the sun bursts the bubble
of the horizon, somewhere,
out there in the distance is a strong sense of purpose for me,
distant, perhaps, however,
I am clear and certain that
something awaits me.
I stand here, before you,
a new man, changed a thousand times over, yet
I am not different from who I was yesterday,
or at least cellularly, I am the same mind
and the same body.
I am the same person with the same background,
the same history, and the same wish to rise,
to live, to see, or to go and touch
and find the place of my dreams,
or like the small town fantasies I have of driving through
and stopping in some little unknown town
where unknown people smile and say easy and simple things,
like, for example, people here would tell us things like,
“good morning,” with no agenda, aside from being friendly,
or courteous, or perhaps welcoming
would be a better way to say this.
I am not a traveler by any means and at the same time,
it seems as if I have been around the world.
I have gone around and circled back.
I have walked in every direction,
looking to find something,
or searching, as I like to call it—but what am I searching for?
Perhaps it would be better to acknowledge
that, in most cases, any internal search can be solved
and found internally—and me?
Or me and my excuses?
Or what about me and my ways of rationalizing
or justifying either some kind of inherent laziness,
or some kind of spiritual, emotional,
or what about an educational dullness,
as if to say that,
somehow, we lose our spark
when we forget to stoke the flames
deep within our heart.
It is easy to lose to the sight of darkness;
but more, it is even easier to lose our minds
to the anticipation or the assumptions
that our darker predictions
will overshadow the depth of our soul.
My soul is bright, when I allow it to be.
I am as bright as the sun,
when I allow myself to be true.
I am perfect and broken and like anything with faults,
I am unique and an individual, all on my own.
It is only right to celebrate me, or us, or us as we are;
it would only make sense to scrap the nonsense
and let go of the useless fights
or the need to “be right.” Rather than be right,
it would be a good approach to work as hard
at being happy.
It is a good time to reflect and reject the mottoes
that somehow cause the ideas that lead to struggle
or causes the mind to suffer within.
If it’s going to be, then it’s going to be.
If the answer is within, then the answer is within me.
His, if it is up to me than I must first decide
what I am willing to do,
or how far am I willing to go,
or at what lengths am I wiling to travel,
and for what reason,
or to what avail?
We tend to hold the struggles more dearly than, say,
the way summer came around
and the sun touched my face and tanned my skin.
I have chosen to resign from the bullshit fights
or the fake lies or empty promises.
I have chosen to divorce myself from the people, places,
and things that weigh me down.
I have chosen that being right
isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.
Sometimes, the idea of being right,
or to be validated
seems more important than
enjoying the sunrise when the leaves start to change.
And New York City?
You have been more than my safe haven
for longer than I can figure.
The City and the streets,
and the uptown or downtown memories
are all where they’re supposed to be.
Not everything was always so tough—including me.
I am not tough. Yet,
the toughest thing to do is be honest
and open and say yeah, I’m weak.
So, what?
I’ve been weak for a very long time.
Then again, perhaps
I am stronger now than ever before—or maybe
now that I have chosen to walk away,
maybe my freedom strengthens me
because, at least, I can see clearly,
to which, like I said, this is just an elegy,
or a series of words, collected together
to form a thought,
or to expose a deeper reflection.
Maybe I just want to shine a little brighter.
Maybe I want to be beautiful
regardless of whomever calls me ugly
(or worse).
Maybe . . .
The Written Addiction 