Into Motion

I've looked deep in the eyes of madness to whisper.

"Do you know me?"

Only to run with my ears covered so that I don't hear the response.

I've hidden deep in the world

with pitched laughter and aching sighs serving as shields.

I've hidden in packed classrooms and open fields.

Breath overrode by the jostle of arms on staircases.

I've hidden with a drink in hand, a cloaking device made liquid to hide heart and soul from myself.

I've hidden memories of eagerly stomping the bright sparks of new dreams with the black-crested boot of worry.

I write with the absent heart of a cynical lover, hoping that they'll find redemption without ever summoning the courage to kneel.

I chain heavy stories like beasts in a cellar. Offering the world lighter ones- knowing they can't hear the snarl and scratch of shackled truths.

I deliver whimsy with sharp breath and bright eyes.

And now I seek to know if I've wagered creative sin. To suck the air from the tender lungs of a sweet curiosity.

I ask with hands clasped- for a second, third, and fourth chance.

Head bowed- knowing a shame for fearing to know all of myself and offer that to the world. So that we may know each other- as brave souls are wont to do.

So I step back to the front- and gaze deeply into madness and wonder.

And they say

"Yes. We know you."

And Still

There's a crunchy rustle as I stuff my poems into Pandora's box.

I know you're not supposed to mess with it- but I worry the energy in there- the spirit (if it is one) gets lonely.

It must be terribly bored after all this time.

I pass it poetry- my poetry- so that it knows me.

I'm not known to many people.

I've been a whisper in rooms—a stray glance on the street.

Others don't go looking for me- and yet, they find me all the time.

I keep Pandora company. Even immortals feel lonely.

Especially immortals.

When you stand outside time- you lose the weight of emotion.

You lose the depth of experience.

You are dead without dying.

You are damned without sinning.

It is heartbreaking- to hearts that are not allowed to beat.

So, I write my words on loose scraps of paper—the backs of receipts & used lottery tickets. I scribble short lines to elicit enough energy for a single charge. An artificial return to life held within fading ink.

I am the Stork and Reaper within a single stanza.

I am four seasons in one day.

I am still trying.

Infinita Liberacion

Being alive is a dangerous game. We live under the grand illusion that our days are endless- that right now isn't special, and you will always have another chance. So we use it to keep our distance from one another. We use it to build ways and listen to the insidious lie that what we are feeling has never been felt before. That no one can understand what we've experienced and that no one can love us, because they don't know us.

But I don't believe that.

"'la infinita liberacion de no saberse solo.' - The infinite liberation of knowing that one is not alone." (Ernesto Sabato.)

I believe that everything in this life holds the mark of another. From the computer I'm writing on, to the table I sit at—the roads, bridges, books, etc. You can see small pieces of those who came before you. In the designs, in the implementation, in how they still stand, or how they've disappeared. Least of all your own body- made from two people before you.

Many people want to disagree. They want to scream that they're unique and that no one gets them. And maybe part of that is right. Perhaps it's not that they're not capable of being understood, but they're too afraid to give others a chance. It could be they tried once, and it didn't work. So gripped by fear of rejection, they never try again.

Recognition of existence is a primal desire.

We all feel this. You see it in artistic creation, physical construction, and in great adventures (whether they be big or small). It's called legacy. In some form or another, you want to leave a legacy- a lasting memory that you were here and did not go quietly into that good night.

Fear stands across from us as we craft our legacy. It screams that we will fail, and we should believe that. We should laugh and say that, of course, we'll fail. We'll fail because nothing and no one is perfect. That flaws make up the most beautiful parts of our world. And that it's only through trying, and failing, and trying again, that we meet the measure of ourselves.

So, of course, we will feel the cold hand of fear upon us. But the bookends of darkness remind us we have no time to let this force our path.

Life is inherently scary. That means you get to step into the role of being your hero. Bravery isn't being unafraid of the challenges or terrors before you; bravery is staring them down and trying anyway.

I bring this back to loneliness. Loneliness is a terrible, universal fear that everyone has felt at some point, and yet, we struggle to acknowledge it. There's an undercurrent of shame when someone is brave enough to admit to feeling lonely. However, that is the path out of the forest. Loneliness is a communication issue. You have needs or desires that you want to meet, but you don't know how to take agency and make them happen.

This is paradoxically simple because it's undeniably hard. As I often say in my personal life- I'm not easy, but I am simple. That's because while I don't always know what I want, I do know the things I don't want.

Make it simple for yourself, say what you don't want, and permit yourself to explore the wilds of life to find what you do.

May you take the small joys of life wherever you can, and leave a legacy of kindness and understanding.

We're not perfect. We never were and never will be. But we are here together. And that's enough.

Small Moments

There are few things in this life that we take for granted more than time. And yet, we're burdened with the knowledge that our clock is always ticking. Not facing this fear head-on leads to pervasive anxieties.

Know that you are going to die- that your physical existence will come to an end. And match it with gratitude for being here at all. Each of us holds the immeasurable gift of conscious life. We know we are here- so use it. Understand the inherent danger of being alive- that a return to non-existence always beckons.

Use the fear you have for that to fuel your curiosity about the world. Use that giant, ever-looming fear to compel you to act when minor worries present themselves. Use the fear of death to enjoy the small moments, embrace love, and operate with grace.

I believe that if you can't laugh at the absurdity of being a hairless ape flying through space on a big rock then trivial disappointments are going to burn you every day for the rest of your life.

I enjoy today- knowing that is what I have. I have today, this moment, but no other time. No one on this planet can give me an answer with absolute certainty about what happens next. That's a beautiful thing. We are all equal in our ignorance of the afterlife- and it should bond us. Knowing that only today is sure- only these moments where you're reading this are certain- should compel us to dare to love each other deeply; to empathize in our collective struggle to make sense of our existence.

We operate our daily lives in a sea of chaos. There is no "taking a break" from living. Everything you experience, feel, or believe, is connected in one way or another. You cannot step away from the "world" because it is the reason we are here. It is all-encompassing.

We came from the darkness of non-existence, and with time, will return to it. In the meantime, we operate with a broad range of emotions, behaviors, and beliefs. We are not meant to live this life in search of perfection. There's no possibility of that in this realm- the closest you can get is excellence. And excellence can only be crafted with the building blocks of failure. We exist with constant change. We are fundamentally tied to it with every breath we take.

As your days’ change- may they hold the same pattern of being your days for a while yet.

The Force of Art

Benedetto Croce believed that Art came from the core of humanity. That singing came before speaking and drawing before writing. Art isn't something exclusive to developed mercantile societies. It's something that lives within all of humanity. Try as the cultural elite might; you cannot gate keep artistic expression.

That Art is the product of the hungry spirit within humans- the desire to craft something of meaning; to make sense of not only the world around them but the world within them. As Viktor Frankl stated, "Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose." We have to have a reason, find it, or create it, why things are the way that they are. These reasons come from a singular point of view that's a synthesis comprised of all the input received from life experience before delivery.

We, as individuals, cannot state or create all-encompassing truths. We are not omniscient or omnipotent- our earthly limits bind us- but what grand limits they are! Already, we are blessed as we are cursed with present thought. Self-awareness is the Devil that perches on the shoulder of us all. Is it not true that the Devil doesn't damn? He offers information- what we do with that information falls upon our heads. We are the Gods that can damn our existence.

There are two absolutes in this life of ours: The Start and The End. Even those have unanswerable questions attached to them. Is this consciousness purely biological? Does it die with our grey matter? What does this brief foray into the aware mean for us? The grandest question is the simplest and broadest, like the shoulders of Lenny: "Why?"

It's the echoing cry of those who suffer without meaning. It is the curse uttered by lost Gods: "Why?"

They beseech the sky, their fellow man, and the world itself. But outward answers are loud and thin, tearing with pressure. It is only the internal voice that can provide that curse lifting reprieve. The Gods must find their fountain of knowledge, neigh, acceptance, within themselves; and bathe their weary bones in its waters.