How can we be the ones we were perceived to be? It doesn't seem real. It's all angelic and posthumous in the way it floats, air-like in its breath.
I remember my Grandma. She was a beautiful lady with a massive heart. I have picked up some habits since I last saw her and I wonder at times what she thinks of me from the great beyond. I can smell the pie from the window sill - baked apples, cinnamon and coffee in clear cups where you could see
the cream going in.
Tonight, the window is open agape and I am dreaming aloud. The cold crack of December has startled something within the ashes of my creative fire. Listless and rollicking in the momentous seconds and ticks, I listen to streams of music flow through my brain and stimulate me - my core - my heart - my soul - my feel - my me.
I have put off writing for some time and in a lot of ways, this Journalism program has dried out my wet words. I feel a tad obscured and realm-struck by the vastness of living beyond Neptune, on a distant moon of thought. The words were once rife with struggle and stacked with chunky substance. Now, I'm eeking my way through most things and just living in the hour and the second and the moment.
And the words - the words seem so ridiculously calloused and dusty.
There are codes and keys and fabrics behind everything. We are floating on a fast-moving iceberg towards resolution and deeper thought.
Why don't we fucking understand each other? Why are we trying so hard to connect furiously when all we need is a warm contact to drive the spark?
We are alive.
We are here.
We are making it.
Rest assured, though, that all will change. We will zoom through cosmos and monolithic fractures in time. The gaps in the galaxy will be full and gleaming with answers.
My mind can't keep up, right now. My hands are an extension of something utterly gut-wrenching and real.
Your naked heart needs a jacket. Gets fuckin' cold out there.
I think things have changed and I'm adrift in some sort of sea of realization. The sea, however, has its own temptations. I want to float in it and swim in it and dip my being into its cool, blue luster. I'd like to stay in this sea for a while and bask in the embrace - but I can't. I must go. This sea is temporary and soon, the land will come. The land requires action. Building. Docking. Traveling. Navigating. Mountains. Pain.
I miss my old pals from Kingston, I really do. Even though I have become self-obsessed and fully absorbed into this world of writing and publishing and multi-tasking and selling myself, I still see the way that things were. It shines in my conscience - a wick of remorse. A pang of unresolved worth.
But I have new loving companions, now. Things have changed. I've left behind a lot of the stinking worlds that I thought were unscented. I thought many things were real but it turns out, they weren't - How can I tell?
Because they are not here, now. Real things stick around. Real things admit to their bullshit and man up.
The ones who are here are good folks. They are young and they are old. They fight hard and they work hard and they know how to fight and work with the mud of words and the soil of thoughts. They push through and make sense of the nonsensical. They are good people. Some, I've even learned to love in a way that I never knew, in the framework of all that is platonic.
These folks laugh. They have no money. They smoke. They smoke more than smoke. They eat the marrow out of the bones of life and they want to get their thought-seedlings into printed beings. They are a hearty breed and they have glass livers. They have lungs that are bruised and scabbed with the coughs of fulfillment.
I am fully immersed into this world, and I'm liking it and scared by it at the same time. I know only a few things can crop out the photography of memory, but really, the tools can only cut so much. The imperfection shines through. We are living in an ocean of slow motion sound. The academic clock ticks loudly and twangs the highway wires of our futures. We only know what we can get and we only know what we can do and we only ever do those things. We do those things. We do them.
We are counting down. We are all waiting. Waiting for God.
Waiting for everything to become nothing and for the playing field to be level, once again.
