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: January 2022
I’m not sure I am ready for this
week. In fact, I know I’m not
ready; I’m just not sure why.
Sleeping in today didn’t help.
I’m not prepared, and there is
nothing significant happening
anyway. It is just another week.
I have more questions than
reasons, but no answers.
I’m not sure why.
01/31/2022 j.g.l.
Posted on January 30, 2022 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
You look for direction as much as guidance, not knowing where or how you got there on your own. True North is not where it usually appears amidst the pattern of misguided efforts that steered you past the point of moral rectitude.
Still, there you are looking past where you’ve been like it matters this time.
Admitting you are lost is the first step in moving in the right direction.
01/30/2022 j.g.l.
Posted on January 29, 2022 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Snowflakes. Only movement.
Twilight comes until twilight goes.
Daylight leaves too early. Swiftly.
The deeper the night, the colder
the darkness.
My January breath suspended,
my thoughts wishing to go
somewhere. Anywhere, other
than here. A deafening
winter silence.
The air is slow. Still. Almost.
Alone, even in the shadow
of the streetlamps. Nobody to
shield your ears from the cold
or dampen the inevitable.
Pointless the task, reviewing patterns
and paths carved into the cartography of
the ego. Realization. What once was
may never be. This season
stays the longest.
Even with full sunlight. The wind,
should it decide, rips through me.
Harsh. I am not here. Not really.
Permanent as my
January breath.
Flurries obscure constellations and
the Moon. Isolation. The circumference
of my being is reduced, Limited.
Blinded by temporal beauty,
or tears.
Nothing has happened, or is
happening. The brazen chill
clashes with body heat, the atmosphere
the victor. Obvious. The world
still gets in your eyes.
Time agape with a grey known only
to the night. A solitary trek through the
ordinary. Undisturbed. Each step resonates
the soul-crushing scream
of a thousand snowflakes.
Beneath winter’s fickle façade, the ice
cracks, The fragility of the planet apparent.
Vulnerable. Each season has precious moments.
Gone. Time stands still. This is
my January breath.
©2015 j.g. lewis
