I was freedom in my hopes. A difficult soul, with
hardened perceptions. In loving, I became free, free as a lad, when love is
beautiful, grand, new, forceful. I would trail the ocean, feed the sunbird, a
place inside, surrounded by sand. Other horizons weren’t appealing, youth
engulfed us—souls and eagles, patience in banter, jest in romance, before
irritations settled upon life. Love was a smokestack, ribs and wine, snuck in
through the patio door. Orchids were vibrant, symbolic, making for ambience and
décor; so much to give, sore at trying harder, so natural the silver lining,
the moon seemed so close; herring bones, huaraches, Ralph Lauren jeans, to sing
with gusto, to bathe in vigor, at each soul like life would never change. To
grow into concerns, to possess old anxieties, to fear both winning and losing—to
feel like Billie Eilish on a lonely morning.
II
I was into life, eager to celebrate, unknowing of the
tides—as they would ebb and flow, the seashore filled with wisdom, those many
to visit and lay cares to seas; seas would listen, make suggestions, ask
questions by silence. I had obsessions: neat everything. A soul would scold me,
poke fun, point to life on an emotional scale; some typical lad, unfeeling,
bottled up, feeling too much to dismantle; the moon would drift, the sun would
vanish, little things no longer filled voids, life took on an aura, a field, an
uncertain quality. Certitude would dissipate. I impaired the situation; I took
to philosophers. The rolling of semantics, The clarity of complex thoughts, The
anxiety in being without certitude. Listening to existence, losing parts, pieces
adrift, souls at life, everyone headed in a given direction. To have life,
meant to let life go, surrendering is horrific.
III
Experiences are often verbatim, room for nuances, essentially
alike; sidewalk flowers, little deserts, fields and haystacks—white,
existential whales, uneasy wonders, things and arts, and beauty one dares to
approach. Life has remoras, realities that latch on, with little recourse to a
quick break—(ironically, when the break happens, something is then missing)—one
has to adjust, learn to settle-in, with passion roaring inside. The Great Rift
in souls, The Dead Sea Scrolls in personality, The Leaning Tower in spirit; and
a man dreams: those start off huge, they are sanded by time, circumstance,
excellence. The horizon forests, the vertical happenstance, to lose a part of
love, to become too familiar—with life, souls, expectation; like math outdoing
itself, passion might outgrow itself, pain might saw at core being, philosophy
might become scientific.
