Over and over I say to myself, I remind myself, I write myself. Into curves and straights, corners and turns without coming to an end because the past is never in sight and the present lingers for only a second. The future demands to be known with each stroke of the pen, it becomes present and is written into the past. The eternal struggle. Memories selected for harvest until a later date confirmed only when they are opened once again. That is not all, that is not all. There are those that remain in your mind but blanked out, slowly again by time.
I feel the need to explore the depths of the lost chambers that echo within dreams. I feel the need of a flashlight into the wells of dark water long bathed in the moonlight. A moonlight that shone since the morning I opened my eyes. 7:45 AM the clock once read and will read again. This is a cycle, unending till you realize you have gone away from something at the same time towards something. Can you open doors, can you close doors; Do you have that courage? I know not because I fear I know.
What you forget is what remains in plain sight. What you remember is what you hide. Perhaps. I leave through words and phrases, floating through long indecipherable because I no longer possession the dictionary to me, myself, and I. Until I stop and reach into my pocket and find a compass and some letters in disguise. I am surprised at their insignificance and the significance all at once, of what I kept or discarded. Those choices remain as a relic, etched in the fabric of a soul hidden in plain sight. Have you realized the folly of the world as you grasp its sands that slips through your fingers because you do not have water?
We all belong or un-belong to a kindness that only we can supply. We are all stars within our moonlight or another’s. Then again, what can I know for sure because I am not you or anyone. “We all belong to the same remainder” – how have I forgotten a gift. Words beautifully written, not by you, me, or anyone but inspired by the Mother of us. Move beyond the restrictions, oh I find this language so inadequate to convey or to capture the colors that I see.
I hear your cry, your tears, your smile, your laughter. I hear them all echoing in sync but I was unable to act. Paralysis by a malaise only I could have concocted with spells of unknowing. Unknowing because I have hidden. Unknowing because I left it in the open. Who is to say, what is granted now. A sudden thought, I again remember that night in a faraway land or was it nearby?