Nothing hit in last night’s attack.
But this is common with imaginary wars.
I know.
Today is Sunday and the morning was more than I expected.
The sky was blue and everything was green. The trees, the grass, the leaves, and all the colors of Earth are alive in springtime and showing themselves off in full bloom.
I am doing my best.
Or better yet, at least I can say that I have managed to remain consistent.
At least with this. I am still consistent with coming here or to sit with you, if there is such a thing.
All of this, my letters, my dialogues, and journals, and my internal truths and my external dilemmas are all alive and well and still real to me.
So are you.
This is a beautiful morning, or picturesque to say the least. I was driving earlier and headed north down an old familiar street known as Merrick Avenue.
I used to live there. Remember?
I used to live in different places.
I lived with different people.
And I knew different enemies.
It seems more apparent that I lived through different times and somehow, I find myself in an oddly familiar territory which makes me a stranger in my own places of worship. This is crazy, I know.
But before I digress, then let me not digress so deeply that I forget to state my point, which is this:
I am still here.
I have not gone away or gone anywhere, per se, and nor will I ever be too far that you cannot find me or reach me.
No, this will never be,
I will always be a part of this or you or us.
We are destined, somehow, and crazy nonetheless.
But destiny is destiny and I know her reach far exceeds my level of understanding.
I will never abandon this place of mine and nor will I ever surrender my position, which is here in the depths of my heart.
But before I announce my plea, I have to acknowledge that in all fairness; this is all I have left.
This is my last stand or my last hurrah, and this is my last claim.
All I have is this and all I have is the wealth in my heart, —which is both poor and questioned, weak and unfortunate.
But still, I am me, this is this, and whatever I have in this world is all I have.
And what I offer is this, a seed, which I have kept in the palm of a childlike hand, like a glowing seed, which I close my eyes and wish, “Please!”
Please grow.
Please come back to me.
Please come back to life.
Nothing is so far gone that it cannot be reborn.
Please
At least, I hope not.
Good morning to you, the month of May.
I am told that April’s showers are supposed to bring May’s flowers.
I see this more like a metaphor as if to say hey, something has to come from this.
Something has to break the tides or the tension, like the way autumn comes to break the humidity from the summer storms.
The Earth is rolling around in the middle of something far larger than our concepts of The Great Almighty.
Winter, spring, summer, fall . . .
We have reasons for these things.
All of them are equivalent matters of change.
And I need this. I need them.
I need to remember that yes, the cold weather comes.
But the cold breaks and warmth returns.
Winter turns into spring and the red-breasted robins act like a sign for the upcoming weather.
I love this.
I see the new birds come back to the scene in my Long Island town.
The ground thaws.
The memories come back too, which is both good and bad, or a blessing and a curse.
I offered you an olive branch yesterday, to which I am sure that neither you nor I would understand what to do with these things.
You and I have been at war for so long that our swords would abandon us if we subjected ourselves to some kind of treaty. I am sure my armor would weaken and leave me exposed if I entered into some kind of honest negotiations.
Too much has gone by and now what?
Do you know what happens if someone dies?
Well, the next day comes and goes.
The lights in the house turn on and off, the same as they did before.
The bread truck still heads out to make its deliveries, and the newspaper makes it to the doorsteps on time.
The traffic lights do the same as they did before. The phones still ring. The television goes on and off and the 5 O’clock news will still come on at 5:00.
But. . .
the recollections and the remnants of memory will linger like ghosts that carry smiles that used to change the world for me.
Like, this morning for example, I was bitten by a case of nostalgia.
Except that which is gone is gone and that which remains are vacant, like the memories that linger the same as ghosts and carry smiles that used to mean the world to me.
Summer, fall.
The heat can build and become unthinkable.
I agree with this.
I understand why summertime comes with crazy storms and how, sometimes, Mother Earth needs to step in and shut us down for a while. She calms this down with a rainfall that falls like no other.
The storms come out of nowhere.
incredible . . .
We need to clear the streets. We need to take shelter.
Or maybe this is how Mother Earth looks to cleanse the dust from our wasted arguments.
Maye this is Her way of giving us a timeout.
Who knows?
I used to look out from a window on Lexington Avenue and watch for storms like this. I saw the yellow cabs flying down the streets, like Kamikaze drivers that swerve the lanes between the Avenues.
Sometimes we need the rain.
Sometimes we need the sun.
Sometimes we need the cold days of winter to remind us what it means to have someone warm to hold or make love to.
Sometimes we need to die inside to understand what it means to live, or to love, or to make love, like no other being on this planet.
I am sorry for my trespasses.
I am sorry for my sorry dilemmas.
I am sorry for my acts of aggression or my bouts with pride.
I am sorry that I am not me all the time and that often, I am too afraid to show myself without my beard.
I am too afraid to be undressed or undecorated.
And more, assuming that if I showed up at all; I am often too afraid to learn that all the kindness was just a trick or a scam.
Maybe this was something to get me to take off my bulletproof vest or drop my guard and expose my jugular, which is weaker than I care to admit.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Or maybe I could say, what doesn’t kill you makes you question your worth, or if everything is your own fault, and this makes you wonder why someone else was the better choice.
Was I ever enough?
Would I have ever been enough?
Or quite possibly, what doesn’t kill you might just be something that didn’t kill you.
And that’s it.
Ah, my dear sweet enemy.
I wonder what you and I would do without each other.
Perhaps this is why you and I keep each other alive, —to keep us on point, to keep us strong, or to realize that enemies are less threatening than lovers with either fake or bad intentions.
I can deal with an enemy growling at me.
These are just part of the rules of engagement and I understand these things.
I can deal with it when enemies attack or look to cut me deep.
Besides, their blades are far duller than the blades of someone you loved who went rouge and thus, even a rose petal can be twice as deadly as the sharpest blade on this planet, which we called Earth.
I have music playing in the background at the moment.
The song Higher Love is playing, which is apropos because yes, I will wait.
I have no choice but to wait for a higher love.
And to be fair, I wish the same thing for you.
I wish for a higher love for you, my enemy, because maybe you and I can both get back to being the people we always wished we could be.
You and I will never walk the beach again.
I know.
But at least the ghosts from old smiles can be less haunting to us, —and maybe you and I can forget that we fought like we did.
Nothing is ever truly ruined or over.
At least nothing this big, which is bigger than you or I.
Everything changes. I get that.
So do you, I’m sure.
The fireflies or lightening bugs will be around before we know it.
And I?
I will catch one for you, my dearest enemy, just to release it
and let it fly again
in peace~
The Written Addiction 