Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days

  • decision time

    What will I do today? This week?
    Each day I ask this, of myself. I ask this of others;
    daily, hourly . . . each second of every minute I ask questions,
    and
    with each question comes a decision.
    We all make decisions
    all the time.
    Continually.
    Where to go, what to do, what to buy, whether to stay,
    what to say,
    how to say it, how to ask a question. ?????
    All decisions.

    Each and every act, goal, accomplishment or
    failure, begins with a decision.

    How can I be sure the decisions I make are right, or proper, or ethical . . . even moral?
    I can’t.
    I can try.
    I can leverage all my knowledge and experience, and hope, and plan,
    but even then I can’t be sure the decisions I make, at that time, are correct.

    I am like everybody else.
    We all struggle with decisions.
    Many, or even most, of the decisions we make involve someone else. In fact, many of the decisions we make must function, or cooperate, or align, with decisions made by others.
    And that is hard.
    Even the simple decisions we must make are hard.
    Every decision is one of hundreds of inter-connected, though seemingly unrelated, decisions made each day.

    Life is a cumulative series of decisions.

    Your decisions impact the lives of those around you; those you love
    or those who, just by their nature of being where they are or what they are,
    are just there.
    Every day.
    Every day we make decisions.
    You decide how you will be viewed, how you will be remembered,
    how you will be accepted, or how you will accept others.
    All decisions.

    We wake and walk upon each decision we make.

    Some, in fact most, decisions are irreversible; resolution is not even in your hands.
    And the decisions made by others may possibly be the most difficult decisions to deal with.
    You are forced, without having to decide, to deal with the consequences
    you had never intended.
    One decision leads to another, and there is always the danger of collateral damage.
    And if we don’t question the decisions made by others, we wonder: why they did that; why they said that; why they left, or let you go?
    All are questions fuelled by decisions, and decisions made without your input. Mainly
    decisions made with little care or without concern for you.
    Then again it’s not the actual decision that hurts, as much as it’s how you react to the decision.
    If you don’t react properly, there is certain to be conflict.
    Decisions can lead to arguments, as much as agreement, or conclusion, or worry . . .

    Without decisions we do little, or nothing, to contribute to
    this grand parade we call life.
    Think about it.
    There, right there, that’s a decision; you have to decide how you will think about it
    and what you will think about.
    What will you think?
    What choice will you make?

    If you don’t make a choice, you are leaving it up to a chance, or fate. Kismet.
    And taking a chance is nowhere near effective as making a decision.
    It might be easier, at the time,
    but really it’s not.
    Not at all.
    When we make the decision to leave it up in the air — to leave it to chance — that in itself
    is a decision; not one to be taken lightly,
    and one that can only lead to indecision.

    Indecision can kill you, if not physically then morally, or spiritually.
    Just as the wrong decision, or even the right decision at the wrong time, can
    take its toll on how life should, or could, be lived.

    With decision comes responsibility.
    We own each decision we make, and every mistake made.
    Spur-of-the-moment decisions often haunt us the longest.
    So how do you make the right decision, without worry, without regret?
    I suppose, above all else, it’s a matter of being flexible, and even more so,
    being fair.
    If you are making a decision it should be made in fairness, and with intention.
    And it should be made for all the reasons that are good and whole,
    and right.
    Not just right for you, but those you care about.
    Think about it.
    Ask yourself: What do I want . . . what do I really want?
    Or,
    is what I have what I really want?

    Is it?
    Make that decision.

    © 2015 j.g. lewis

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  • between the covers

    Don’t look for me amidst words I write 
    between the lines or in the night. My handwriting 
    always rough at best, the journal is a daily test 
    not to myself, as much as time. 
    The pages stained, the thoughts are mine. 
    Coffee spills or drops of rain, tears 
    in certain places, among streaks of blood 
    (paper cuts) are both things I’ve done, and 
    things I must. 
    Personal. Private, page after page, book into
    book, rarely do I take a second look. 
    I can, when I choose. I write. Memories now, 
    or they will be soon, a thought du jour, 
    there is always room between newspaper clippings 
    and obituaries, postage stamps and all the necessaries; 
    the weather, the cities, the price of gas, a few jokes 
    and then, a certain laugh. I never know what
    I will discover, as I fill the space 
    between the covers.
    Inspiration from a tea bag tag, a picture from a
    product bag, instructions to a game, a recipe or two, 
    the phone number of someone I once knew. 
    Stories of redemption, or reflection, coupons 
    never redeemed, wishes and promises not once 
    what they seemed. 
    Directions to a house I’ll never visit again. Excuses 
    or reasons I never explain. An expired lottery ticket, 
    a book mark now, I always wonder the when 
    and the how.
    Concert tickets, and transit passes, accounts of 
    dreams now only ashes. A label from a bottle 
    of premium champagne, reminders I’m reminded of, 
    again and again. 
    Let’s face it, we don’t always remember, and in years 
    we never will. You can write them down and still 
    the history in the making, of interest to myself. 
    Only once a kiss and tell.
    The journal is, essentially, a travelogue: inner thoughts, 
    outward concerns as I evolve. The pencil continues
    to scratch, the words keep running. It’s not 
    who I have become, but what I am becoming.

    © 2018 j.g. lewis

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  • my January breath

    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 wind 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-crunching scream of  

                                                             a thousand snowflakes.

    Beneath winter’s fickle facade, 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. lewi

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  • our foundation

    We cling to memories, even
    subconsciously. Certain days,
    and not always, continually play
    with our unruled emotions.

    Incidents of bliss, specific sorrows
    or worse, leave lasting impressions.
    It cannot be helped. We live through
    experience: yesterday and today.

    Reflected in our fragile faith is
    a greater hope. We often do not,
    or cannot, see past our cold,
    current, restless reality.

    It is not the truth that provides
    our answers, but an unclear
    deception of the question
    lingering in our consideration.

    Us fractured selves, not always
    strong and stable, survive by
    constructing our foundation of
    what we see and how we know.

    Hindsight is not honestly accurate.
    May your need for yesterday
    be slightly overshadowed by
    the wistful wonder of tomorrow.

    © 2023 j.g. lewis

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  • decades

    Time: a challenge more than a choice, most
    of the time. For most of us, as we progress,
    a learned experience from confrontation
    to cooperation.

    We come to accept the realities we acquire
    and, armed with gratitude and knowledge
    of what has passed, step forward into days
    and years ahead. Decades.

    Wisdom comes from knowing when to speak
    and when to shut up. A learned experience,
    avoiding confrontation anytime, in the name
    of contentment.

    Fill your days — whenever you can, however
    you can — on your own terms. A calendar gladly
    misleads; or do we simply misunderstand our
    glorious perceptions.

    © 2020 j.g. lewis

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