A Story as Old as Time

In the beginning…

I was no more than a lump of clay in the hands of a cruel potter. Shaped and reshaped and destroyed only to be rebuilt again and again.

As time progressed…

My life took form and started to resemble something real and familiar and unique, but still unrecognizable. Not yet art, but primed with potential, and by value practically worthless.

Yet life continued…

I made the most of what the universe gave me, though limited in functional skills, I summoned every ounce of tenacity and hope and steadfastness - finally tasting the fruits of my success until my back was tired from the strain of it all.

But once again…

I found that the universe did not care if I won or lost, but it was always there to give me the push that I needed, always intertwined with pain and struggle and messiness.

At once I discovered…

There is a peace in the ruthlessness of the world. The darkness is a constant that never leaves us, try as we might to grasp for hope and peace and unconditional love, they are in short supply; we starve for the possibility of their existence.

Then I made peace…

With all my foibles and shortcomings and peculiarities and realized that I am flesh and bone and skin that treads the same path with billionaires and paupers alike. Try as they might to avoid it, their fates are eternally intertwined with ours.

In the End…

I discovered that I am not a great man, but a man who does great things, and a great many things. All those misguided adventures have molded me into that elusive work of art that I longed to see completed - fired and polished and on display for all to judge.

Rhyme (or Reason)

Sometimes I am a World War II decoder hunched over an intricate machine hoping to translate the mysterious codes into something that makes sense. If I am the enemy, why can’t I figure out my own plans?

Other times I am a sorcerer hovering over a pile of tea leaves, interpreting the splotches and stains like a Rorschach test. I need stronger glasses or I will lose the patterns. Is that a puppy?

But most of the time I look to the sky for the writing that I know will appear or the hand of doom etching my fate in the thick clouds. Can the mystery be locked in those grand and ominous puffs of water vapor?

We see what we want to see. We interpret what we think the universe wants us to know and where it wants us to go. Most of the time we are wrong. Does the universe even notice us over the hum of chaotic existence?

Lately it is best not to expect anything. To leave it to the wind or the gods or to something more powerful than myself. The burden is much too great for me to carry on my weary back. Were we ever meant to carry it alone?

The wheels turn and we peel day after day off the calendar, hoping time may give us just a glimpse of wonder, exhilaration, or confusion. Anything beats the humdrum predictability of our daily duties. Do we even hope for catastrophe, drama, or anger to make us feel something…anything?

Sometimes we are lulled into experiencing the mundane and dreariness of repetition, habit, and programmed simulations. Maybe there are those who thrive on that way of life, but I can’t stay there long. If we are patient, wouldn’t the certainty of reality change our mindsets and jolt us out of our slumber in due time?

Feel your lungs expanding. Count the rise and fall of your chest. Translate the thumps of your heart like Morse code. You are a miracle in a curious, fleshy container. You are the bringer of change and the master of the everyday. Take another breath and enjoy that one as well. Cherish each ‘what comes next’ moment as it passes by you. When should I schedule my next disaster?

 

Change: It’s a Feature, Not a Bug

In my brain, the image is crystal clear. A memory unlocked and played on the small screen of my synapses. It is a private show. No one else has these experiences. I have my own director, soundtrack, and cinematographer for the movie of my life.

The delicate images deceive us because many of these places and realities no longer exist, erased in time like a sandcastle brought level by the incoming waves. Does that make them any less real?

As our days proceed, the urgency to record these images and scenes rises with each grey hair on our heads. I feel the need to preserve remnants of the past because no one else seems to care if the memories live on. I know it is futile, but I try as I might to keep them intact.

Every person makes their own movies. The screen in which they work is unique to them, but we all have the same 3,600 minutes each day to build our lives and our legacy.

While the daily chaos whirls and suffocates us as we contemplate the horrors of the world, it seems selfish to worry about our own memories, images, and uneventful stories. They seem so small and insignificant. But we own them, just as they own us.

How powerful is our mind, that it makes the images alive again – the smile and laugh of my grandmother, the embarrassment of crushes in middle school, the exhilaration of mountain views on Boy Scout hikes, the heartbreak of deceit that stings the soul, and my spirit renewed by the gentle touch of love – all become real again as I bring them back into existence.  

These experiences may disappear when our light eventually fades, but that is not our concern for now. We must continue to build new memories, playing them back on our nightly screens, and smile at the thought of all that we have gained and lost, knowing that the memories, and all that we have ever known and experienced, will float away with us as the tide washes us out to sea.

When the Book Takes Hold

They call to me one by one – “Pick me, pick me!”

There are so many books to read and so little time

To enjoy them.

I am like a starving fish and they are the bait.

Once they take hold, fight though I may, they have their hook in me

Until the deed is done.

 

I have always been a reality man, so when fiction waves the lure in my direction,

Rarely do I bite. How do I know what is real in the world of fiction?

Yet lately I am allowing it to take root,

To explore those vast universes poured forth from the mind and creativity

Of the lonely author.

When I doubt the creation, I mortally wound their sincerity and

Disregard their gift to the world.

 

So down the rabbit hole I go and as I careen through the narrow passages

On my way to the gripping finale, the sadness begins to set in.

The last few pages are like the downward slope of a rollercoaster, but more like a water slide

Where I will drown in its torrential conclusion,

Hopefully resolved but nonetheless concluded

No matter how I may wish it not to be so.

 

When the relationship is over, I want to bask in it,

Take in the moment and allow myself and the written word

To hum like two exhausted lovers in the silence.

Now the book has served its purpose; it was meant to be read and not shelved

To rot and clutter on my bookshelves.

 

Lately I try to rest for a while and soak in the meaning of the written word

That has run its course in my spirit; to do otherwise feels like a betrayal.

My hunger always returns, and I must feed it to sustain my life.

The only way to satiate this hunger is to choose another book and gird myself up –

For a new journey awaits.

Living with Ghosts

What do I see before me? Its shape reminds me of someone from my past, yet I cannot make out their face. Maybe it was a shadow of me or maybe it was someone I never really knew.

They say a river moves and changes every second; it is never the same river twice. So it is with humans. We try to become a new version of ourselves, but glitches from the old software keep gumming up the system.

So many images and vapors of my former life haunt me. Those I thought were my whole existence but moved on to eternal destinations too quickly. Those who started as small children but soon grew up to be adults who live with my scars and spend their entire lives trying to unlearn my mistakes.

But love lingers in beautiful ways. Its shadow is never far from my eyes. Its light and darkness both beg for my attention. Love is now something that I do not have to search for; it is always there keeping me warm and reminding me of my insecurities, my imperfections, and my humanity. Reminding me that it is a part of human nature to seek out love and cling to it for dear life.

I see a future that is blurry, but one that deserves my attention. I cannot live in the past, for it is but a vapor. A thick mist that obscures all I want to see. The ghosts that follow me are of my own doing. They do not haunt me for they are continually at my side. They do not scare me, for the ghosts are strangely familiar and uniquely comforting. They are an extension of my soul.

How can you not believe in something, but at the same time believe it is always with you? How can you remember these ghosts, but deep down know that you will likely never see them again? Maybe the ghosts are all that remains. All that we will ever possess. The only thing that makes sense to believe in.

How their spirit lingers. How it moves in every area of our lives. We owe the ancestors our very best. We owe them our hearts and the sacrifice of our lost lives. We owe them to never give up on our dreams. We must pass their love on to all who deserve it, and even to those who don’t.

I must believe in ghosts. For someday I may be a spirit that guides those of the flesh into the mist. Darkness awaits us all, but the ghosts will lead us where we were always meant to be.