I will start with morbidity. Our time will run out: footprints, mirrored neurons, cautionary tales. Leaving behind our tries; our chances; (our creativity). Expectations. Perspectives. Moments. In the past and the future (and the present). All at once. Read these directions :: We have to stop this––this lackluster angst. This regret for what was; worry for what will be.
Your past is preparation. For opportunities. And growth. Not unknown curses, but Adventure.
Embrace impermanence or you will be swallowed whole. Shake a nervous fist at the sky, but latch onto emotion. We want to produce great art. But the hours are long. In our drive-thru world. The days, the weeks, the months. Mundane. Maybe this is more about growing up than growing older. Maybe more about growing older than growing wise.
Or maybe just pure intentions and how we decide to make them a part of our lives.
We are pastel boxes at the foot of a bed and books stacked, misplaced thoughts atop one another. And like clockwork, reevaluating ourselves. Rereading our own pages. The books, flying wide open. Page four. And disinterest. Slathered on top-lacquered shell and only in the closest distance, their passage, cognizant. Written inside, scenes forgotten to regret. stuffed inside our bodies, the tissue overflows & spills out. The past devours the weak mind, guilt (like confetti) expelled into negative space.
Of negative capability :: beauty is truth, truth is beauty. I have believed in such things. Papier-mâché. A story written by memories. Freshly painted emotion. A funnel, small/poignant/important. & as paint, duration smears its face down.
And the Old shines through. Immaturity : a lack for directional spirit, lost/frozen thoughts. Thoughts on thoughts of other thoughts. the melding of iniquity, protrusive reputation trails like a stench. monkey-mind.
But wake up! One’s past is shape-shifting. Don’t you know its importance?—Or, rather its peculiar (monolithic) magnanimous breathing? Heavy, shallow, breaths. Caverns shaken inside the intestines, uneasy recall. This is non-fiction. Do you have a scratched complexion? Say Grace.
Be Grateful in gradience, when all but a few pieces, not in disarray. Remember ––it is the journey. This journey. A path as comforting as it is alarmingly – beautiful. I know not what is asked of me, but what I have tried. I know not when I have tried, but how diligently. Crusted earth presses its heels into my spine. I lean forward, looking up. Behind me, the shadows deepen and bleed out with the people and places and things that I was. The people that I am. Multifaceted coincidences, and I meet (me) again. Say hello to yourselves.
Travel (kindly) and lightly, through the valley of ashes, but do remember not to forget where you’ve been. This. whimsical. little. tale. Your life, like the insides of a lightbulb—even when dark, wired with potential. We are Creatures rolling around inside our shells, some feasting on others. Most, sharing mutual existence. I am facing growing old, walking backwards. As to make sure, no single gasp of intended glamour is missed. None considered null. In the beginning days, too bright to see. But now, clarity, as if the day I was born. Right in this Present moment.
Follow these directions :: Be Kind, Be Kind, Be Kind.
And consider this of your worries > You are not drowning, but waving.