Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days


  • she wants to breathe

    Restless now. Really for months, an urge
    a need, to do something. Feel something.
    An interest in objects, as much as anything.
    Certain things mark a time. A sugar bowl, a
    cookie tin; items, almost sacred. Empty, at
    a glance, yet brimming with moments.

    Grandmother long gone, she now finds
    herself in a place. Voices. Ushered forward
    by a child, young woman now, and held back
    by memories. Her flesh, her blood, those
    who raised her. Comfort. Restless still.
    Words and thoughts, she wants to write.

    She wants to write, but never has. Not like
    this. Father’s firm disposition, a mother’s
    tenderness, a voice that softened her reality.
    She wants to write, like she wants to believe.
    Decisions made, not regretted, but pondered.
    The ink is fresh, the pen permanent.

    A snap of memories, broken, diminished joys
    not of parenthood, but of partners. She wants to
    write about love; past and present and perhaps
    more. She wants to write like she wants to breathe.
    Ink flows smoothly. Her blood. History always
    an interest, this is more personal.

    Shameless, blameless admissions, only to herself
    and a page presenting itself as a stranger. Now
    it offers its skin as a lover. The smooth, thick pen,
    heavy and hard between her fingers, finds a rhythm.
    An object desired. She wants to write, like she
    wants to feel. She has, and will again.

    Never like this. Minute details reiterate her faults. The
    pen’s nib, ever constant, captures lives left behind,
    but still within. If only her heart, if not in her life.
    The pen moves forward, she still there. Now. Every
    letter, each stanza reveals a voice. A need.
    She wants to write, like she wants to bleed.

  • not only the lonely

    Loneliness has been romanticized, hypothesized, criticized, and realized time and again, for years and years, and still it exists as it never has before.
    It is an isolating condition we all, I believe, have experienced at one (or many) points in our lives.
    A Minister of Loneliness has been appointed in the United Kingdom to address social isolation across all age groups. Loneliness has been aligned with so many mental illnesses that it may itself be one of the most widely-spread mental ailments of all time.
    Being lonely is depressing; in fact, it can be both the cause and result of depression.
    We don’t really talk about it.
    It takes a certain strength to speak about loneliness, and you don’t have that strength if you are lonely.
    Loneliness is easy; you can do it all by yourself.
    But you don’t need to be alone to be lonely. You can easily feel alone in a city full of strangers, or with a small group of friends, anywhere, or any time.
    I have been lonely, in different stages, at different times in my life. It feels lonely just to write it down, but you cannot address a personal issue unless you are prepared to admit to it.
    Loneliness is a state of mind, a sign of the times, and can be one of the greatest conundrums. Not always emptiness, loneliness can be the result, or the cause, of anxiety. Loneliness can take you deep inside your mind, or your mind can lead you to loneliness.
    Fear of being alone can only make you lonelier, the effects felt from the brain through the body.
    It is confusing.
    In a world where there are more people than ever; at a time when communication is more accessible, (if not instant), the state of loneliness has never been more present. Still, loneliness is one of those topics many people will not speak about.
    Overcoming loneliness cannot be as simple as simply saying ‘find a friend’, or ‘talk about it’, but it can be a start.
    Let’s talk.
    Let’s see.
    Know when the feeling isn’t right, and begin there.

    Only the lonely
    Know the way I feel tonight
    Only the lonely
    Know this feelin’ ain’t right
                                      -Roy Orbison

  • a reason to see

    To read poetry is to escape from the depths and doldrums of everyday life and to take a place among words and emotions that make life bearable.
    I carry with me in my bag, everyday, a book or volume of poetry; a purposeful exercise that allows me to step away from boredom or the corporate bullshit that all-too-frequently envelopes my day.
    Poetry, whether I’m reading or writing, grounds me. 
    It allows me to be who I am.
    It allows me to see who I am.
    It allows me to take some time and make it mine.
    Often I don’t get enough time, but a few lines or stanzas of a poem is enough to reflect on where I am, or deflect the attitudes or algorithms that attempt to corrupt my humanity.
    Poetry is a reason to be; poetry is a reason to see the world and wonder of where we are.

  • all of this

  • there

    When the fog lifts
    will it show what it hides
    inside
    our comfortable homes
    and uncomfortable lives

    When the morning lights
    will we see what is
    within
    our tangible disappointments
    and inequitable sins

    When the night moves
    will you still find me there
    will you
    offer your wisdom
    or a cold vacant stare