Silently, or suspiciously standing in one place, in between unsteady steps I take throughout the day. Waiting, even for a moment. Respite for the time being, perhaps, not even knowing why. Questioning, unquestionably, each of us continuously striving to keep moving at our own pace, Caught up in this human race, surviving, maybe thriving as we try to determine the flow we know is best. We think. A little later today, earlier for some, we all have a path; a better way, leading to better day. Moving in different directions, sometimes hastily, as required. Some of us are simply limping along. The weight on our shoulders slows us down. We must, once in a while, stop and let it settle. Far more than waiting. Unconscious thinking, our minds move, even if our feet are firmly planted. Progress not always certain, we can only hope our intentions continue propelling us further. It has to be more than hope, yet we still we try to keep it all in stride.
Come under my blanket, literally or metaphorically. Share my words, and time, beneath this moonless sky. Breathe deeply. There is warmth here; we have a place to discover, to dream, and to make this world a little smaller.
You are not like me. Obviously. The voice is foreign. Your skin is different; or maybe it is mine. But let’s put those differences on the table and sit, as equals, as strangers, as humans, under the canopy of night, united by what makes us the same.
How different can we be? You are here. So am I. Should we all not be allowed a place for art, for dancing, and dialogue, and just allowing things to happen. Shouldn’t this city, this place of all places, allow for a naturally-occurring random acts of belonging.
We belong here; we are all here, more likely than not strangers. Regardless of where we come from, or where we have been, there are more commonalities than differences. There has to be, we are the same. We are all right here. Right now.
Can you let go of what you are used to? Can you imagine becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable? Can we as a species, as a people, as a force, take back the negativity that exists outside this blanket? Can we try?
Communication, unhindered by race, or faith, or morals and mindset, should be the easiest way to absolve the madness that occurs daily on this planet. If poetry is the language, it matters less about the accent and more about the intent.
You have a voice, and it is lovely, and unique, and has a purpose. Speak up. Share, let others know how you feel, and what you deal with daily, weekly, and now. You belong. Come under the cover, and make room for others.
I hear you, more than I listen to myself. Messages of caution or concern, statements of grace, sentiment not fallen on inattentive ears.
The words we can, the words we must, the words we say. The words we trust
And this. And we, are we even comfortable with our vocabulary? Do we know or can we tell, right words from the wrong?
Conversation or confrontation, depending on your situation, those same words mean something else to someone else. It’s becomes even more difficult to tell.
The words we say. The words we hear, spell out misunderstanding. Injustice. Pain or fear
Shared experience, descriptions, details, doubt and deception at times difficult to put into words. Our emotions demand that they must.
Honesty is what it is, as it has always been, but spoken less and less more and more. It matters not how you express yourself, only that you do.
Walls surround me; people tell me, even ask me where I’ve been. I can’t find the answers, or the reason from within. If home is the place where you lay your head, I’ve got no room left for what goes on when the walls are closing in.
No longer seeking safety or salvation, but simply common ground. There were never second chances the first time around. It’s been years since I have come home, though I’m not without my blame, I’m not without my judgment and not without my shame.
No reminders. No residue. No solutions, nor the pain.
More a feeling than a destination, home is not about geography. Even less the physical location. The whisper of home gets hard to understand, even mundane decisions become more difficult when you take life in your own hands.
Driving forward, moving slowly, the place between here and this. Listen to music you chose, the next track on the disc. Melancholy melody, even lyrically it stokes a chord. We all remember taking chances, but too often forget about the risk.
Of course I’m still dreaming of home, it helps me pass the time. Past mistakes and memories, I own them; they are all mine. My mind often loaded with gentle thoughts of you, yet it still provides no direction of where I’m going to.
If a star should fall tonight would you even notice? Beyond the bandwidth of your rationalizations, a succession of contradictions and explanations, would you mind or will it matter if a star fell to the earth? Would you even hear the shatter?
Millions of people, like constellations, dealing with insurmountable issues of trust and faith, and complex relations, whosoever can take the time, find the conscious mind to pay attention to an innocuous occasion like a falling star, or the possibilities of such.
How can we take seriously that which happens in the heavens while this planet demands so much attention to serious matters. Somewhere, nearby, a neighbor screams, the night is not quiet as it once seemed. If you slept through it all will the stars even fall? Who would even notice or wake to the sound? Does it even matter when you are not around?
Always in darkness, we know not how to embrace it, or to end it. Should a star fall from the sky would you know who might have sent it? Are you willing to guess, are you willing to receive it? As we stay, as we do, entangled in temporary lives filled with perpetual motion, a star falls, and we seldom heed the sight or take time to amend our emotions. All of us stuck in the middle of something, nearer to the end, always in the darkness.
When the star falls, cutting through the clouds, diamond-sharp edges tearing at the canvas of your semi-comfortable existence, releasing the inevitable. Blood drawn, spilling out, time and again. Would you recognize what is hidden, or understand the mind a falling star can damage?
Your soul or conscience telling you what you don’t want to hear, thoughts teeming with contempt and abject fear. Wide-eyed awake still with no sight, making excuses to yourself for excusing another life. The galaxies you once noticed have turned their backs on you. One star, any star, any star will do. If a star falls from the sky, and it will, will it come close.
Darkness ever strong, discomfort goes too long, likewise your shame. You can’t forgive your silence, or forget your indiscretions, as you shoulder all the blame. Destined to repeat past mistakes, time and again, when the star falls before you, will you recognize the pain?
Should a star fall from your life, another luminary gone, and so too the brightness, will you slip back into the bottle? It has comforted you before. Can you close up all the curtains, again, and hide behind your door trying to banish all reminders. Will you try to validate your presence with another hand, replacing thoughts of how it happened with those you cannot understand. If a star falls in the night will you be awake enough to feel it?
Let them fall, slipping hastily through the air, down, down, crashing down, let them see you there. Perhaps they will stick around, for now is never what was planned, and you know it rarely it is. If a star falls from the night is it worthwhile trying to find it?
