The heart is a hatchery of feeling:  love, loss, long preparations, waiting.  I internalize everything inside of my heart. It’s like living inside an impatient suffering room. 

What is love for?  The sky cannot tell us.  Beauty cannot say.  I know in my heart impossible things.  I make you the sorry happy face of everyone.   Of course, I could leave but you would still be the key to everything. Don’t be mad.  I have to imagine you, I do not know you.

I see you as an extension of love.  How do I account for this long, lost weekend? Where I’ve done nothing profound except perhaps to sit and look at the sun which looks like a sun, very bright and although the weekend was deliberately empty I barely had the endurance to finish it.  Time seemed to collapse more than it tended to pass. Staring too long into the sun creates an avalanche of deceptive visions and I chased every single one of those visions thinking they contained answers. If only I could show it to you.  The sun I mean. It is the one thing that hangs over us that does not try to make its mark on our world with its long and edgy boulevards. Maybe if you would just look at the sun, you could see the visions and then you could explain them to me.

I admit I like the beginning.  When it ends it is over.  Totally.  But when I drive 100 miles looking for something to do and return home to walk 75 yards and the only thing that makes sense is to stare at the sun again just for the sake of remembering; then it is not over.

I’m not complaining.  It was the loveliest worst day.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.  Your days and hours must feel like bills, as if your happy future is a debt and God is waiting to collect. It feels like such a thorny problem and the longer we dance around the issues; the stars begin to separate from each other. On the other hand, try to remember the trip to Paris and the explosion and the feeling of being born when you’ve really never been born.  I know why it’s called hope. Because you never tire of it and it never tires of you.  What a triumph that will be.

A good friend told me to write to the universe as if to throw all this into the air and wait for the angel responsible for granting wishes to protect you from the unbearable burden of unkissed kisses.  That angel makes me see you in places you’ve never been. You have to understand, I’ve never wished for anything like this.

I may meander aimlessly but sometimes I prefer to walk to the water’s edge. You too, it seems, prefer lurking in the undergrowth at the water’s edge waiting to jump from the blackness to grab me. I proceed with caution through the shadows of your deathly and dank dungeon where you stow your hatred for me. I am in a tangled mess but some insights are worth having.

Cockroaches are devious. They prefer to move about secretly, sometimes in the dark halls of your mind until you finally scream from the madness. I was told that the birth of March heals all wounds but have found that is not the case.

And there you are. You finally came into sight. Suppose you saw or even thought you saw a ghost. Your memory appears through a haze and you intrude once more uninvited, into my awaken moment. How does one go about clearing the ghosts? You are an intruder. You force yourself into my thoughts and like an illness, I have no resistance right now to fight you off.

Your presence is an embarrassing mistake. It is like I am at some elaborate event and I must hide you before you are noticed.

You were suppose to be my friend. I discovered in the hinterlands of the South that was not the case, however; I should thank you because if I hadn’t been introduced to the dark, I would never have an appreciation of the light. And the light becomes a gift. I know you would be so angry to know you actually give me a gift. So you see, you are a dying tree and every time I see a leaf blowing in the wind I think of you and some piece of your shell that fell off. You’re there and then the wind blows and you are no longer there.

Strength is overcoming pain. Beauty is overcoming hatred. And in my struggles and my times of doubt, I look around and love seems to always welcome me.

I try to always have clarity so when I dream, it is always in reason and I am unable to dream in the impractical. I try to merit my ideas of you into something substantially significant.

Are you contemplating or speculating? I am a strong believer that any conclusion based on guess work is defective.  I wish I had a better method of dealing with it. I wish I could rid these rather obsolete mental viewings playing over and over in my head; these parallel passages leading back to the same arguments except with different authors.

The weight of this unbearable decision to choose or reject. I am so crowded in all this ; the blank of things. It’s all still so conjectural.

 I was watching one of my shows. This was the quote at the end.

“So much of what is best in us is bound up in our love of family. That it remains the measure of our stability because it measures our sense of loyalty.”

Back and forth, back and forth I used to struggle. You are a holiday for my soul.

Such beautiful powers of apprehension we have.

I made a promise to myself once.  I made a determination to always be myself.  To love what I love, to do what I love, to live, eat, speak, breathe, dream and know what I love as if the love of it itself was who I am, as though my spirit were hazed with rainbow colors including gold.  To not care who I impressed or who was listening, to avoid the drama and be my most logical self.

You know what I love about you?  I mean besides your comfortable voice and your attractive face and your awfully unblocked but sometimes burdened way of living, I love your fracturedness.  I love how you’ve made friends with life again.

I spent many years learning to sleep and doing it so well.  I had so much time to admire you.  If I woke and wanted to drive somewhere to see you; how simple it was to grow wings.  My heart was smitten enough to create anything.  I love being reckless.  I love colliding with your dreams and wishing my body would break, hoping my mind would bend, wanting the pluck of your bite and your movements under me and all its brilliant stars.  How easy it is to pursue my dreams.  I especially love how the evenings open up; they are revolving and windy with immense and persistent wait for you to visit and then once I see you, my astonishment once again.  Nothing has changed.  Everything has changed. 

I do not need any fancy words to make you fancy.  Just as a sunrise needs no expression of beauty if the sunrise is already beautiful.

I love you absolutely.

 Let’s trim the hedges that separate our yards.  We were singled out and set apart from others for a special purpose.

 If we take away the simplest ingredient or change the combination of our mixture, we may completely remove ourselves from the party.

 I regard your individual existence. I respect and rejoice your unity but am saddened by the spacious separation from the nave and aisles by a lofty carved wooden screen door from which I can see your modern monuments but only from afar.

 I won’t dwell on this because bees are sometimes drowned in the honey which they collect.  If we are not careful, something that had once been, something delicate, wild and far away can be shut out behind the doors of yesterday, lost beyond the hill I climb when I try to see my sunflower.

 I saw the expression on your face.  Not completely mean but not altogether nice either. I know about hammering my answers into my thick skull.  Sometimes I only see the tiniest bud of hope but at least I know why it’s called hope.  You’re the only one I’ve shared this with and afterwards I’ll swallow my words.  And, although I don’t have the understanding of all mysteries, nor can I remove mountains pressing heavily on your lungs making you struggle to breathe, I do have faith that you will surround yourself with people who never flap their vain wings and have already put away their childish toys.

 The answers may come to you in the silence of the night, speaking to you in a dream, but may vanish from memory as sunlight forms your new day.  It is important to remember that fear kills and hope will feed you.  Don’t think you have to lose yourself before you can find yourself.  Don’t get pulled by the conveniences of time when it comes to the essentials needed for a happy life.  Ride the highways on your motorcycle and have your girl drizzle a bit of sunlight into your recipe.  I’ll make sure I paint a cool breeze in your spirit and maybe you will fakie fakie some much needed moonlight for me.

Following the intermission, Act II will start.  This is no routine performance. A lot is on the line and we will make a full conscious choice. I knew I could not suspend the first act forever but I also know I could become a much better person because of Act II. 

Just as I have done before, I will reach for your hand and wait for you to put an end to my vacillation.  However, if you could look into your own eyes, you would see that our clear trodden path is lost. From your misty eyes, I see the greatest secrets await us in a place where there are no paths leading to it and no paths leading away from it.  We will find it, our pathless place in life.  It may not be what you expect.

You must have observed that whenever there is some turbulence in life, a person’s whole belief system weakens.  

I have to remind myself to live the life I am living and my once calm region, full of peace, may be tossed around a bit.  But who’s to say all that commotion, especially from your most prudent princess, my unmatched opponent of wit and judgment, who also turns the cartoons end from end, isn’t the best thing for me?

I don’t want to be a bystander in my own life and these transcendent moments of awe could change forever how I experience my life.

I am sick of you.  I am sick of your lyricism and the cautious stopping in midstream while I try to determine the meaning of your words.  Get in line; you’re almost dead to me. Go ahead and adorn those ornaments of hatred you have projected for so long. Some day you’ll see your errors and I won’t be here. I throw into the heavens everything that could possibly happen. Do whatever you choose to do whenever you choose to do it. I’ll not wait and I’ll not lay wake.  You are a naked child fighting against a hungry wolf and I have no confidence in you to see anything but your own ability to do wrong but blame me. You are quite good at it. You loved by constriction. You hated only when I couldn’t survive your death grip.

I stood on your burning deck and decided to jump then I was blamed because I fled. I went back for you when I thought I could.  You opened the door and let me in, but you are plastic and you resumed your original form when things got warm.  You have a great ability to call up the past. I wanted to be in the present but you refuse. Go ahead and leave me alone. Eventually my cruel scars will heal. Your cunning ploy to fool would-be outsiders does you no good.

I laugh while I pass through your thunder and your wielding flail of lashing blame. I’ll survive. No matter how ugly the end is, it will be a beginning for me.