It is amazing to me.
It is amazing when I think about the possibilities of who we are or how we identify.
It amazes me how limited we can be or how stuck we are when confronted with our own truths.
And truly, I have to say the freest I have ever felt was the freedom i found the day i chose to be brave enough to step away from the tables which no longer deserved my attention.
The best freedom is when you don’t have to say “goodbye,” or offer a speech because in the moment of awareness, we realize that arguing or responding degrades us. And like it’s been said, who is the fool?
Is it the fool themselves, or the fools who argue with them.

It amazes me how people limit themselves . . .

I have said this before. But I am reminded of a shirt I saw when I was young.

I sat in a church yesterday.
I was reminded of a day that happened years ago. Or in fairness, this was decades ago and somehow, I must have blinked or turned around or missed something.
Decades flew by.
Age crept in and I’m not sure how this came to pass.
I understand this intellectually, of course.
But lifetimes have gone by and years are gone.
I am closing in on the age of my Old Man when he passed away.

What the hell is that, by the way?
Why am I older than my doctors now?
When did this happen?
But let me stop before I digress even more.

I sat in Church.
This led me to think about where I was as a boy and how I was about to become a young man.
This caused me to think about my first realization of mortality.
Lie is life. Death is death.
And I shake my head.

Maybe I’ll never be “okay.”
If there is such a thing.
Maybe I’ll always want more.
Or maybe . . .

Maybe I’ll always look around and see what other people have and to me, there will never be enough.
Maybe there is something to be said about living in a frequent state of envy.
Maybe this is where our madness comes from because whether we try or die, we look around and experience an absence of grace or the spirit of achievement.
And so, we want more.
And yes, maybe this is why people cheat or cut corners or sneak around and look to get over.

There is something to be said about the summertime> or even more, there is something about the sunrise on a beach from a place in my past.
Or of course, there is something about the dichotomy or the division and the contrast of life and youth and age as it unfolds or transpires.
Life is happening.
Always.
But ah, such is life.
This is life when we find ourselves in the moment, awake and alive, and brave enough to face ourselves, honestly, with an introspective thought.
There is much to be considered or thought about when taking the dares in your heart.
And this is another fact: not enough people dare to follow their heart due to the fact of their failed past.
I know. I have lived this way too.
There is something to be said about the freedom that comes when you walk away.
No looking back. No turning around.
Just go . . .

She wore December on her grin like a long time gone. She wore this like a familiar shirt from something her Grandmother gave her, sacred too, or like a thing of comfort from the past, which was proof that someplace, or somewhere else, there was another time when all was well.
I see this in her, or should I say in you.
I appreciate the way you wear your smile or how you enjoy the sun when it’s kind enough to show itself in the dead of winter.

Certain things are often indifferent or unmoved, to say the least, and dare I say that I am indifferent because that would be a lie.
I am not indifferent. I am interested and invested and convicted of crimes that my head committed when my heart wanted to be true.
I am this.
I am all of this too.

This is where I came from. All my journals or my thoughts have all come from the same place. This is my past, of course, and these are my little secrets or my tiny recollections which I hold like old notes, folded in paper and kept away in a small pocket in my heart.

No one sends notes anymore.
Everything is texted and emailed.
I miss notes.
I miss seeing handwritten letters and reading the words I love you in a signature other than some kind of computer-generated text.
But that’s just me . . .