You begin to understand, at a certain age, it is not about understanding everything. It doesn’t make sense, any more, any less, but becomes easier to understand or accept. Nevertheless, in this realm of limited-time offers and best-before dates, coming of age seems right. Come what may, give or take, to trial and error, it no longer matters, now, who wasn’t there. Destination straight ahead, on a certain date, in a certain way, you carry any range of emotions more purposefully, on any given day. Often you have more to say, yet wisely choose whom you repeat it to. Every day is not the same. Glimpses of yesterday rarely appear. Anyway. This was the tomorrow we looked forward to.
I wake. I wake often at 3:37. Desires inspired in Illuminated darkness and hunger. I want ice cream with you. Half asleep, wholly consumed, vacant dreams, your voice shows through. Unusually delusional. Familiar image, tussled hair, threadbare kimono and comfort.
Quiet. Front stoop shadow at 3:56. I show up with ice cream and excuses. You with questions, and sleep in your eyes. Silently nothing happens. Lawns hiss, lamppost shines on streets bereft of motion. Come closer. Dreadfully dead humidity and well-weathered wicker leaves an impression on bare legs.
Hush. You stultify my banter, caution me not to laugh so loud or I’ll wake up the neighbours. I tell you I don’t care who hears us or who sees us through this heat. The ice cream is melting. 4:24, you take the spoon and the last mouthful dribbles down your chin.
Compulsion. Not caring, or even daring, that neighbours might find you on top of a shadow naked on the front lawn at 4:37. Ice cream tub discarded on the grass. Liberated illumination. Spoon still in your mouth, you are radiant and dripping on me.
It is vast, and unblemished, maybe even uninteresting, at first. At the beginning of the day, to the naked eye, it is nothing more than a vacant page, or space between the lines. Upon closer inspection, it is anything but. A page lies as open as an eye. This is my landscape. You see white space; I see themes and dreams, and possibility. The view changes, as does my mind, by the minute, moment-to-moment, year to fear, as each day becomes each day, and I am still here. The landscape changes, oft times like a blur through a car window. It’s like that when you travel forward. Look closely at what you see, take note of the spared indifference to what is, and what could be. This is more than my breath, voice, thoughts, leftovers or left behinds. It is more than indulgence and possessions. It is there for a reason. This is a world of secrets in a universe of sounds. It contains sins and silence, handily left for obsessive thoughts, and action. I know no discomfort, or a source for objective reasoning, so it should be as it flows, and like any great adventure you are never aware when it stops. There are no endings. It is not about anything, or could be about everything. It is my landscape. As permanent as chalked messages on a sidewalk, as indelible as DNA, there is something here than need not be understood, but it can be. And should. If you take the time, take what is mine, and read between the lines to see what might matter now to you, or me. This is my landscape. It may not all be personal, but it is intimate, and available. It is not a complete picture, but it is honest. It is here to entertain and inform, even advise, but take my words with a grain of fault, for there is nothing more human than a human being struggling to exist. I do both; struggle, and exist. This is my landscape, even when it is all mixed up. I might say some things now and then I am now only trying to comprehend, and admittedly there is naivety, as I want to learn, to know, to understand. So it goes from society’s distinct or damaged black and white to every Kodachrome colour that is, sadly, missing in this day and age. I use the past only as a reference, and not a regret; I have none; I can’t, at least not yet. Judge me not by my words or what I believe, take nothing for granted, if you know what I mean. Beneath all adventures, or even my stillness, is a strong inner voice. Not by purchase and not by choice. My blood boils with anger, and terror, and compassion. And love. I have a purpose, with promise, thoughts ever full of hope, evermore. Finding momentum to even my most dormant dreams I break it down again, and again. Again. These are my eyes. There is no revolution, not right now. Perhaps, maybe, there will be, for someone, somewhere else, a person to show something new about you, or your inner being. It may not be me, but keep reading, to see. This is my landscape. These are my dreams.
An active pacifist, I am resilient, steadfast, passive, yet passionate about all that inspires me.
Protest.
Upsetting, at times confusing, we take a stand when we can but not always when we should. Do we choose to ignore the significantly unsettling actions of them who believe in something else?
Why?
How can we know the truth untold, but exhibited so many ways?
Are we not blessed with perception? Can we know the ignorance evident in public displays of rejection?
Stand up for what matters. Make it matter. More.
Can you believe in your heart, in your soul? In me?
I’m not sure I can kneel down before you, or give in to your power. Not like before. A situation such that I am unsure whom or what I can trust, let alone myself. Still I look up. Here I stand, pockets full of dust, starry eyes gazing through the ozone. Toxins leech freely into the atmosphere. Degradation of the night sky deprives us of opportunity to see what we once believed. You are there. See me for what I am as I try to listen through misaligned radio frequencies. I cannot know where you have been. You hide. It is your way. My hands are not big enough to grasp the message. I’m not looking for the sky to save me, nor am I waiting for the time to be right. I need to go home now and find what is so far away. I’ve lost my balance. I’m losing my fear of heights.
Equality may never be, the darkness and bright allow us only to see what we want, not what we could have been. A level of light is expected, my immeasurable impatience is being taunted. However you look at it, whether you believe in you, or believe me, this poetic justice is all I have known. Your shadow remains blended with the heavens. A starry night will not dissuade your presence in the lives you alter, or the ones you destroy. Yet, in this moment, I know I would try again. How could I not? The option of a moonless night is more of what I have been living, than how I want to live. Between particles of unknown origin in an ever-increasing pool of light pollution, space junk, and refracted thought of a thousand nameless faceless constellations, you are still there. I’m not looking for the sky to save me.
