Spokes on Sunday

Release me from your clutches

So I can sink back to my depths

You lift me up when I need you to least

Sometimes I need to fall

The degrees of failing I contemplate

are regressive and subtle

You see them and forgive 

I see them and despise

So please let me sink back down

So I can repose

They say that God gives us love, someone to love he lends us

This loan has gone on too long

The contract has expired

But you ignore the warning lights

the bells and whistles don’t startle you

Your eyes penetrate through my polish

You see my underlying framework

And it startles me

Please don’t release me, I like it here

No longer alone, no longer cold

Pleasantries abound

Renew the loan, sign on to my side

I want this to work out

Finally on my time

So keep me in your clutches

and don’t let me sink 

I’ll try my hardest to escape

Hold tighter now

At a certain point you have to give up. The tracks you chase will vanish with the dust, and the path will disappear. Head back home, start anew. You owe it to yourself, no matter how much that path calls your name. You have to know that it doesn’t exist, and no matter how much you convince yourself that it does, when you go to see, it won’t be there. Give up the chase.

May the best of your todays be the worst your tomorrows. 

I haven’t been on the streetcar in a while. The wind rushing through my hair from a cool New Orleans takes me back to wonderful times of the past. Each passing block contains some piece of past, be it good or bad. The music rushes through my headphones into my head, supplementing my memories with oft-associated notes. I am calm.

Though it’s not raining yet, it sure feels like it’s about to. Bending my neck backward, I glare up at the sky as if to say, “I dare you,” not that I can really stop the clouds. Nor, for that matter, can I punish them. If the sky wants to open up and pour down on me, it’s going to. It was somewhere between the beginning of my glare and my neck starting to hurt that a very interesting thought occurred to me.

Sometimes it’s just going to rain.

Whether it’s blustery anger from former friends or spattered salient smack spit from the mouths of old enemies, the hailstorm of words will always rain down. It’s the cloud cover that’s beautiful though. From there, from anywhere, clouds mean that the storm has shifted to you. It means you’re brewing a storm, and making waves in the world, creating a cacophony of response from the crowd.

But after the initial shower, the sun comes.

And then, just then, you see how great the rain feels. 

Tiny is the memory that lasts the longest

The smallest of seeds it seems always grow into the tallest trees

Never thinking it’s possible to grow

Always thinking that forgetting is easier than remembering

But it isn’t

Memories don’t fade, they fight so you can’t forget

Always finding a way to break back into your life

Hijacking consciousness, from photo frames

Or simple songs sung in twilight when walking

Tiny they are

Every step taken is forgotten later

But every step taken in a direction is remembered

Every note whispered is hymn of the past

Believe that you wont forget no matter what you do

Repose in the past