For my day job, I am a union worker in an old building. This building is part of New York City’s history. This is part of our labor’s history as well. Although the doors officially opened in 1929, the building was completed in 1927.
Some of the stories I’ve heard are conflicting. I have been told that my building was the tallest in the world until The Chrysler opened up in 1930. But the history books tell the story differently.
Sometimes I find myself opening up old walls and breaking through old columns to find newspaper clippings from 1927. The paper is brittle and yellow and most often crumpled, which makes it difficult to unfold and read the news. 

This is all just a trip. This is us, born unto this life as we are. We look the way we look and act the way we act. We have a blood type and skin type. We have fingerprints that distinguish us as different from each other.
We have hair color and eye color and features that make us look the way we look.
This is me. This is my body, flaws and all. This is me. This is you. And more than anything, this is life.

Forgive me but I refuse to subscribe to the common narrative that exists these days. I am sorry but I cannot and will not give into either side. I will not side with anyone, just to prove a point.
As far as I can see, right is right, wrong is wrong, and I don’t care which side of the cafeteria you’re from. The fact remains that we are all searchers. We are all people with wants and needs. We all have our doubts and concerns and everyone has their own list of fears to contend with. We all came from somewhere and we all chose a side when it came to sitting in the cafeteria at lunchtime in school.

Be aware of the different stages of change. What this means is we all go through our personal resolutions in different stages, different ways, and in different times.
To each their own. And with each is their own pathway. Everyone has their own lessons to learn. And to each is their own motivation. We all have our own reasons and individual purpose.
I am me and you are you and even if we are together or on the same page, this doesn’t mean we are at the same place in life or have the same understanding. We might be parallel but we are all unique.

Where has it all gone? The World? The year?
The life as we knew it? So much has changed but the sun is still here. I know this because it is alive, in person, and shining brightly through the trees and into my window above my loft. The moon is still around. I know this too because I look up some nights and I wonder where some of my loved ones are.

To say that the past never meant anything is simply untrue. Then again, to say the past means everything is equally untrue. The past is the past and put simply, our history is our history. This is where we came from, good or bad, crazy or sane. These are the roots from where we grew.

There is a longstanding idea that we are born several times and yet, we only die but once. I can say that I have been born in several ways. I can say that I have died several times, only to be born again and brought back to life.
I have seen amazing times. I have been to amazing places. I have taken the risk to stand up and be counted and oppositely, I have chosen to hide at times, both sheepishly and regretfully, because I was too afraid to try or risk the chance that I might just fail.

There is an entire world around me that is changing on a daily basis. Life is truly moving at the speed of light, and yet, no one notices the hour or the day or how quickly a moment can evaporate right before our very eyes. This is life, imperfect and sometimes unjust, but nevertheless, this is all we have. or, better yet, this is everything we have.

There is an unwritten rule somewhere, although, it’s rarely followed our wishes. The rule is Moms are not supposed to get sick or leave. Dads are supposed to know everything. They’re never supposed to leave. This is a rule.

There is a rule about our grandparents too, like Grandma and Grandpa. They are supposed to have hands with a touch that no one ever forgets.
And their eyes and the way they speak or the way they smile; there is something so powerful about them. There is something about the way the room changes as soon as they walk in.

I have always appreciated the warm fascinations about little towns and country roads with nothing on them but pavement and the occasional car that drives by on the way to go someplace else. There are towns like this, so small and unheard of, yet, they do exist. They have little stores and maybe a barber shop where the old men gather.
They probably have a diner in town, which everyone goes to and they have pies there, like peach cobbler or maybe even key-lime with a little puff of whip cream swirled on top.

There are details we hold onto, such as the past and the unresolved tensions that linger in the halls of our memory. Tensions like this are the unanswered questions that remain even after the tension is gone. We are products of our past. We are the aftermath of incidents and the remnants of recollections that stem from incidents and accidents that happened during out daily life. Our mind is a recording that plays the compilations of resentments to which, at some point, we become weighed down by things that are long since gone.