I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Month: November 2015
As the world turns,
as it does,
and as it will,
know
there is always
someone to turn to.
You are not alone.
j.g.l.
One more sentence, one more thought, one more
photograph, to seal the day, to put it all away for
a night. A restless night,
a night where I will struggle, I will not rest
not now, so again I am back to
one more word, one more sentence, one more
chapter. Ideas, bought and paid for, with everything
that I possess and all I do not have.
Credit then,
paid now, for what may be enjoyed later.
I am all over the place. If mindful, it is now more of
being hyper-aware. For should a minute go by, and
I miss a sound that may make all the difference, I will
perhaps spend a lifetime attempting to
capture that moment, and the one before.
One more idea, one more opportunity, one more
sentence. I think, at times, what keeps me awake
is the thought or image of what needs to be done.
It might be words, or a landscape, for one
often needs the other
to be fully complete, or
presented as I see them. I need to feel more.
I want to make my thoughts count. Perception. A
certain type of beauty, that, for some, may be rough
or disturbing, yet that, in itself, is a wonder that
keeps me awake, and will not rest, as I should. But can’t.
Insomnia: the word itself is dirty,
tarnished with realizations of what
happened, or will and might. I choose not to succumb
to a chronic belief that sleep alone will cure a life, but
instead decide to find the bounty within my darkness,
to make it come alive.
Should I find sleeplessness, I
will discover the challenge in this vulnerability, taking
the time, one more time, to reclaim it as mine with
one more chance, one more breath, one more
taste.
To seek out beauty, is to find it.
To continue looking is to find it again.
So while you sleep, or when you wake, come join me.
Be drawn, like gravity, to sidewalk shadows only neon
can know, nostalgic music screaming from passing
cars, and the silent click of my camera, or my voice.
The wind will whisper,
its drunken breath oozing the sensual scent of autumn,
subsidizing the nocturnal opus. Aided and abetted
by the din of sleepless traffic, the vacant streetcar is
a solo cello sustaining the deft melody.
The struggle of sleep is a physical need,
it robs you of thought, fills you with greed
for one more photograph, one more sentence, one more
kiss.
© 2015 j.g. lewis
