This has been my experience.
I am running directly into the rain. It is wet and dark and frightening. I am lost and simultaneously found. In one deep (crippling) breath. I travel around dark corners and squint, trying to catch up. And shadows haunt the footsteps. Waving at the past, gasping for the future.
I am a breathing time machine. Listening to a radio.
And then myself, in the mirror, growing older––Exhale. I cannot pinpoint a destination, that overarching bellyache. Time is on our side. My heart beats forward. My steps, heavy and uneven. I am wearing large shoes that I cannot seem to fill. I find myself forcing fate. Or in a consistent attempt (contempt). The sun tries to shine; I stand behind a dirty window. My thoughts are clouded. The lights from the streets are piercing, I am trying for this destination.
I am sometimes lethargic, often optimistic. I flex my muscles, they are sore and weary. I have stretched my mind. The sky above, my dark green soul, bleeds teal Blue floods. Oh my eyes, what have I perceived? In the perception, we weep ourselves clean. Frozen rain. All of the struggle, and fruition? What of this has Meaning?
The still fluid movements of people, the differences, the stories. The sickening longing for adventure. And then thinking to yourself, everyone is just the same and different. And the same. And that is the duality of it all. The paradox of happiness and grief. Place the books on the table, look up from the stacks. Lists. Always growing and changing; yet, constantly remaining still. And in the stillness, there are things that are fathomed. Phantoms of Passion. Be still and listen. The dynamics of the warm sun as it, like clockwork, reddens your insides. Ready. Creep under the covers, but do not hide. Because it will find you. It will bury itself beneath your skin. It will scream, like white noise around you in an E-Flat minor. Low and rounded, but, noticeable.
I have wrestled with this––the way we brush against time. The quickness of it all. Like clockwork, the days shift. The nights grow colder and our hearts follow suit. When I am blocked, I am useless. But time continues. Around, spinning. I, a loss. Pen to paper, but the pen is not smooth. Bleeding fingers, typing, but the sound is too loud. And it melts inside of my ears. Until I cannot think. I cannot think straight. A piano somewhere in a distant room, books and the sound of pencils scraping along a long hallway. In the rough hands of a child. With a knack for words. And it is me. And it is then that I remember, this is a gift. And the presence is then, colorful. Meditation, my cure. My pen moves. Inspiration. It comes in waves and it dilates. It smooths my edges, these circles & shapes.
Poetic reference, the writing process––analogous. Hoping for a clear lens, but basking in the rain. Cleansing and powerful–– its cathartic promise. I write to be free, to uncage the words. I live inside chapters and typography, I will squeeze my life of the magic. For each day, I have only gained more emotional wealth. And the process itself, like the rain, slow – steady – with a pleasant stench. I am a fragile moment, chasing a tragically beautiful existence. My whole, only the sum of its parts, exploring the inconstancies, analyzing the often ironic beauty found in the Now. This lucid writing process, a slumber, not to be woken from.
I will simply live out and tell these stories; I will seek to understand something bigger. I will cherish the words––Thoughts on Cassette. I am taking the long way around; I am running directly into the rain.
All is well with my soul, I will belong to creativity and creativity will set me free.