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: August 2023
We wander when we can.
Movement has a purpose, even that which seems inconsequential or impractical. We are moving forward.
Often we are rushed, so focused on a destination that we pay little attention to exactly where we are.
Even so, each step is purposeful.
If, for no other reason than a sign we have been there, we leave a mark.
Footprints.
Step by step.
Real time.
This is happening.
We can’t always see the horizon as our thoughts are occasionally confined to our present dimension; it defines where we are, whether we know it or not.
If we are unsure of where we are going, how will we know when we have arrived?
Look around.
Pay attention to the landscape, don’t simply become a part of it.
08/04/2023 j.g.l.
Posted on August 3, 2023 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Families stretch across
countries and continents.
We all have a place
beyond
this vast horizon.
The pleasures of a reunion fill
the heart in the time allowed,
with the melancholy of a farewell
leaving enough space for
another visit.
Safe passage
until the next time.
08/03/2023 j.g.l.
Posted on August 2, 2023 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
This is a city. These are the streets; a bed for some, deathbed for another. Another sister or another brother. Mine may well sleep in comfort, as I will when I stop thinking about economic uncertainty, global recession, personal depression, unconsciously random gun violence, the ever-escalating opiod crisis and the apparent absence of humanity. Yes, I try to give enough (or live enough) yet between unkempt obligations and the finality of it all, my patience is such that I mainly look on, voyeur-like. Even the shame has found a place I can comfortably live with. Guilt is such a useless emotion; I have convinced myself of such, thinking deeply and distractively of the ambivalent imbalance. There are those unhoused and incapable of making it on their own. Have we the time, or the means, to dig a little deeper, even lessen the extremes? How can we when most of us know these sullen circumstances are maybe a paycheque or two away from a reality most of us refuse to acknowledge. Will you, can you, imagine what it feels like to go without? Are you comfortable with that? This is the air we breath, the toxic humidity of greed and misfortune forced upon a society entirely unsure of its way, ushered on by politicians entirely missing the point, incapable of imagining a city beyond their beliefs. This is a city I feel I no longer belong in. These are the streets I only walk on, stepping through people discarded along the way like tainted needles and dog shit. This is a sadness I feel I only know is there. There is the certainty of shame.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
