Here in my chair, before my spacious desk, I strike with furious fingers on keys that unlock no doors and make no music. Sporadically come the ideas like bangs of thunder in the stormy hours I’ve committed to my cause. I stand and sit. I open new tabs and wander. The nagging never falters in spite of the pauses, and contrarily I find they strength my moves of combat. I’m blessed to be able to pause between blows, in this war of mine, and strategize my next act. The successive boom can be strong and lucid with a quaking fear rushing out like a tsunami, or maybe just a rumble or two in wait of the next reverberation. It always delivers though on the other side of the undetermined pause because of my ire. That ire desires to rage like a fire in a spire higher than any funeral pyre and I need to let it go. Like a rapid dog left off its leash I need it to rush forward and bark.
It’s the news. The words and messages telling of messes both near and far by those who govern the lands we call our own. Every word either confirmed or not becomes another brick in my house of righteousness and conflict. This isn’t something I wish to carry a banner for, but when there is a side so wrong and easy to feel strongly against I feel I must be a reluctant body on the battlefield. There is no question. I watch the feeds and feel my armor build with every chapter title of the story of today. It is a destiny so complete for me that I feel lost when the fast grows too long. Too long without my armor makes me feel naked.
A whole day I spend striking blows at the unknown enemy on the wrong side. I reflect on my gear and realize it’s the helmet covering my face that makes me most secure. I may have also developed a tea addiction. I fight. I brew tea. I Pace, then sip tea. Rumble a little, then sip tea. Finish tea, brew more. High priority is the tea when I’m supposed to be so focused, but the sacrifice of course could never be made. These are the hours that I storm the battlefield, and on the odd day I reflect. Never once has one conceded to me. Not once have I ever felt a true triumph. The tantrum rages but never does contentment come. The questions must form natural with clouds darker than any I’ve ever mustered and the twister touches down: who am I? Without a name or face I am safe from being targeted, but has the mask I’ve adorned stitched in to flesh and made me anonymous to even myself?
In a small boat she floats and is carried by the stream. The rivulet is a highway for the patient, blessed with a view that speaks a soft statement. Words of swaying flowers and a cadence of steady rising hills reassures even the most troubled of souls while they float down the current towards whatever they sought or sought to escape.
The rich, warm light of the sun glowed on the crystal waves as the boat smoothly cut like a hot knife through butter. She rowed the oars in her own rhythm; breathed each breathe slowly and full. Time may be a river, but today she mustered the strength to enjoy it passing without rush or desire. It flowed, and she along with it.
The ocean in the distance, too far to see but always close enough to feel, awaited to bond with the waters rocking her. What would it be like to let it take her too? To turn and watch as the shore, the shore she has always lived, walked, and slept upon, fail to wave to her as she leaves it behind. Under the open sky and upon the open water; just a tiny dot indiscernible from the flocks of gulls from where the clouds observed.
Playful was the thought, but she knew the dock in which this ride would end. Wading to tie down her vessel, her wet boots pressing down in to the dirt brought her to land once more. The little rivulet behind her waving and smiling in hopes of a quick return.
We must make peace with ourselves like generations of men, woman, and children’s futures depended on it. Lock away the armament that threatens to dissolve a home in to rocks and steel cradling burning splinters of wood and turn talk of nuclear strikes in to harmonious games where both sides are cheered at on all sides.
The fear, the dodging, and the wallowing are beasts easily tamed when the fires of turmoil aren’t swarming in your mind.
Be the person you save first.
The time was here
My pillar for years
Swaths of red in the monochrome.
In every sense
Safe and sound in a burning home
Longer than they should
No ceiling above to limit my flight
But the proud gold
Was weak coal
And the world was ashen on all sides
Except not exactly
Was the world around me
Something miserable meant to die
I simply grew
And saw anew
That I was simply trying to hide
That blazing house
Is just smoldering now
A colourful light stubbornly guides
To show me at last
What was unknown in the past:
A world to walk side-by-side.
A lifetime has died
Though I survive
And move on to be someone better
Up the hill I go
New life in an old memo
Planting a new tree and growing together.
Bring it to life with a Crank and let it roar. These wheels won’t carry us away without it. Escape artists, cowards, or whatever you may call us, we’re navigators of our own lives reading the signs in stars and hearts. Long reaches of asphalt connecting us to the next; yellow lines to follow and exits not to miss. No law bounds or forbids us from packing up and seeking a hunch or prod that might suggest that there’s no longer anything here.
When we get there remember that we were asking questions not committing in blood, and so if it doesn’t seem right Crank the engine to life and keep on. You are responsible for the hands and feet you look down and see, and your job is to only rest them wherever they’ll be most happy.
It’s the quiet melody
The blue rest that lays with me
Nostalgia, hope, and empathy
The Song of birds and winter
On guitar strings and piano keys
Everything I do is he same. Polishing, rebuilding, re-editing, and trying to bring out a shine that seldom goes beyond an unnoticeable glimmer.
When I was younger I was angry and isolated, and now on the other side of ten years I see the same toxins still slithering through the crowded square of my life. It’s like ink scratched on my skin with the nails of a madman, that doesn’t need to be retouched as I age and try to forget about what I’ve lived and what I haven’t. New eyes are drawn to it without fail no matter how hard I try and paint over it with my favourite shade of blue.
So, the week ends with another push in the name of what I don’t want, don’t love, and don’t believe in. All in the name of a day that may never come.