America,

I have not forgotten you.
I have not forgotten what you mean to me, who you are,
or how I feel when I hear them sing to you.

I have not forgotten the rights and the wrongs
or the mistakes from our past.
I have not forgotten the people who have poisoned you
nor can I forget the wrongs, which we have done
And I say we, — not you,
but we, or us as a group or nation, or as a society,
and perhaps divided as ever, I understand
the crucial truth behind
the basic principles of terrorism
which is to divide
and conquer.

It is beyond me. The world, I mean. People, places, and things are all beyond my control. No matter what I say or do, or no matter how I try, I have to learn that this is a fact.
Even if it pains me, even if this breaks my heart, and even if I hate what takes place, I have to remember that sometimes, this is all beyond me.

I think about the competition of self. I think about the battles which take place in the mind.
I think about the times when I rehearsed what I would say and how different it was when the moment of truth was at hand.
And sure, I’ve rehearsed in front of mirrors before.
I’ve practiced my speech, many times.
Haven’t we all?

Am I afraid?
Sure, I’m afraid.
I’m afraid of a lot of things.
But who says fear is such a bad thing?

Fear tells us, “Hey, we have to be careful,” or “hey, something doesn’t seem right.” Above all things, fear is an excellent motivator.
Fear can lead us to the breaking point, and fear can lead us to the reasons why we dared to climb a mountain top, if we choose to overcome.
Or we can see the adverse and give in.
Right?

I admit it.
Sure, it’s easy for me to get in touch with “the other side” or the dark side, so-to-speak. And yes,
I admit to my understanding of outrage and hatred. In fact, I understand jealousy, rage, contempt, fury, and wrath and revenge.
I know all of these things, and I know them all too well.
As a matter of fact, we all grew up together. Come to think of it, we run into each other every time there’s some flashback or some kind of old reunion.
I swear these old kids have never grown up and yes, they still cause trouble more than anyone else.

I talk about this a lot.
Don’t I?

Keep in mind, this is part of a dream
which, in fairness,
I have to say that my dreams are beyond me.

But this one . . .
This one was beautiful
(to me)

I know we talk about things all the time—
you and I . . .
At the same time, there are days when I am alone and times when I am thinking, of course, and I’m thinking all too much and all too often. Often enough, my thinking can become unfair or turn to an idea that stirs the anxiety machine.
But then again, I’m sure you already knew that.
And I’m sure that you understand.
Last night was no different.
I lay awake and looked up at my ceiling. The ceiling can look infinite sometimes but only those who know about this would understand, as in the general insomniacs or the bleeding hearts or hopeful romantics, or even the brokenhearted lonely ones, or the ones who dream and missed their window or their calling.
They get it.
Just like you do. (I hope.)

Before I go forward in any direction, I have to say that I come here with no intention. I am not thinking when I write. I just write.
I move. I let the words go and I pay attention to the keys as I type. I let the sound of my fingers poking the letters make a rhythm for me to keep moving.

I do not think about who reads or who doesn’t. I’m not thinking of anyone, per se, except for you and me and how the universe has allowed me this little space in my head, just to let myself go.

These are just thoughts. That’s all.
They are written in random order and without thought, without plan, without direction, and most times, I swear, I have no idea which way this will go.
But I know where I want to go.

I want to pull in close and feel the music, which is like something I have always dreamed about if I ever went to San Francisco, which I grant you reality might never match my fantasy and the streets I’ve hoped for might never look like the streets that exist. But still, I want this.
But even more, I want to take this slow.

Come to think of it . . .
I think I’ll take a page out of your playbook.
And so . . .
Please, let me begin.

It was cold this morning. I suppose this is nothing more than a preface of what’s to come. And who knows what’s in store?
Another chapter in a lifelong book? Another moment of obscurity?
Morning’s are preparing for the precursor of a new season.
I see this as Mother Earth, allowing me a chance to foreshadow and see the fall, the autumn months and the colors of change, and then what?
The winter is up next. Right?
Next, we find ourselves in the grand hibernation of winter in the Northeast, which is where I am.

I am thinking of the days of old, or the days of my yesteryear, only the years are decades ago.
There I was, alive and well, and a crazy young man on the prowl.
I remember as if it were yesterday yet, I remember this as if it were something that happened to someone else. Or maybe I recall this as if this all happened to me in a past life.
Or maybe this was only a dream.
But I was there. I know I was.

Maybe I was just a witness or perhaps these memories are like sitting down to watch a long movie with subtitles—and sometimes, I was able to keep up with the words and other times, no.
Not so much.