Feeling everything from every direction,
A welcome mat I never bought,
You say come in,
You don’t speak a word to me – never,
Whether you were ever here to begin with is yet to be determined,
And my being drifts into imagination,
Stories you inhabit,
Imaginary tales you never told,
Telling myself stories I’ll never write,
You did enough for me to write forever,
You’re never far away,
You’re never too close,
You’re the reason,
Your memory crushes,
Miles upon miles of hearts I stole.
It happens in those instances when it becomes foreign but haunting; those few seconds when we collide. I know it’s you and you know it’s me, but nothing left to be seen. Maybe I’m crazy, or maybe you were insane and that’s just why we crashed into each other before. But, here you are after all these years prodding even more for me to remember who I was.
I’ve read that visiting memory is better the second time because forewarned isn’t forearmed until you’ve experienced it at least once. I wonder if you were forewarned, or did you scar?
My derelict mind doesn’t recognize you quite as much as I do, so I return from time-to-time, mail a postcard and send some rhyme. I worry the words will dry up, shrivel into the fingertips to be cut off by the serial killer of imagination…gotta provide shelter…to save ’em all.
I used to wonder why you were back, but it wasn’t until I really looked at you, faced you, and dissected, your every meaning that I knew. Time skipped a beat, for a moment reset, and we collided where it met.
I was on the train…it’s where I do most of my thinking, nowadays. The memory reel, turned and turned, revealing beginnings and endings. There were many, all types, really. At any moment, and sometimes you know when it comes but most times you don’t, everything resets. Yesterday you were this and today you’re that. Then again, maybe we just catologue by beginnings and ends? My journals, all twelve or so, are filed away by size but each and every one, a chapter in my life, catologued by who I was when it was started and ends in a shedding of skin into another life.
If we’re stories, books made up of chapters that are made up of paragraphs that make up sentences out of words that have a literal and also an intended meaning, then every single word connects to have meaning. I’ve been thinking of words a lot lately, which makes sense as I’m a writer, yeah I know. Moreover, words–writen and spoken–which express a connection. If we’re souls, what we do is made up of intentions that have different meanings depending upon how it’s funneled to us (the mind or the heart), so every moment is made of choice. I’ve been thinking a lot about choices lately,which typically means I’m over thinking, yeah I know. Moreover, choices–from the mind or heart–affect connection. So much connection that you would think it would be impossible to get lonely and become isolated, but you do. Alone, it’s how we die (see, I do talk about it a lot), but also it’s how we know the value of connection. There is a comfortableness in loneliness that at times lets you be exactly who you are without influence, and often times what comes out of it is a great understanding. I did my best writing during those times, I confess.
Concrete, okay I’m moving away from the abstracts now….
My first journal starts around the time I dropped out of college, went to New York with $60 bucks in my pocket, ended up in Dallas, Texas with my tail between my legs, and after all the fun ended I headed back to the beginning (college, which I DID graduate from with a B.A. in Journalism & Broadcasting). I do want to mention that I was actually the singer/bass player in a psychedelic band during this time…psychedelic because we didn’t truly know how to play (and trust me, you don’t want to hear the demos of me singing). Just a little tidbit that not many of you know.
Another journal is spot-on college life, sporadic ramblings that are either too philosophical to read less than twice or too many pages devoted to confusion, and funny to read about how I thought I had it all figured out. I was the most foolish, but yet my mind was the sharpest.
There’s the tragic journal, the one I still can’t go back and read for fear of wanting a do-over, that I probably worked the hardest on so that I could, start a new journal (start over).
You get the point, I have a lot of journals and they all symbolize a beginning and a beginning’s end, start over, reset, just like the reel-to-reels in my head.