Falling Stars

 The heart.

It's such a fickle and finesse and furious and frustrating thing. It can give you the strength to overcome the greatest of obstacles in life or cripple you over the slightest obstacle like a hang nail. It is this radiant power that controls us all, drives us to be the better versions of ourselves and yet also allows us to be nothing but a fragment of the person we once knew. Figments, shards and shadows... specters of previous lives we've lived that ever reside in that center core...

I'll never forget that first night we met, mon ami. I walked into a cacophony of a day and managed to keep it together. And after we survived the fray, we spilled drinks and shared laughs and I felt a bond I hadn't experienced since a prior life. In a night I knew I had met a harmonious spirit with which my deeper notes would be matched by your brighter tones...

I am always drawn back to a memory that is both beautiful and tragic. A night spent alone, staring out at the moaning maelstrom of the Atlantic sometime after midnight. I had fled to a place that gave me comfort, pursued by ghosts of the present and the scars that hadn't yet formed. The salt was heavy in the air, the sea foam spraying like pollen in a New England spring. The world was silent around me but for the metronome crashing of waves, the January sky blistering cold and gloriously luminous. I thought of you, I thought of her, I thought of all those that I hadn't lived up to...

Do you remember that time where we stayed up way too late, hanging in my room just talking and laughing and crying? You opened up to me about your astounding backstory in a way you hadn't in the years we'd known each other? As the first scarlet rays of the morning's light hit my windows, you smiled as you shared your secrets as silent tears cascaded down your cheeks. You've never ceased to amaze me to this day because of your strength and joy and passion for life. You are a guide and a nurturer to all of those you care for...

It's my last day in New York, a place that had become home and which was the cocoon that allowed me to start becoming the person I am supposed to be. Or was meant to be. That's still up for debate. My last box is packed and sitting next to the front door. I try to hold back the hysteria of joy and sorrow and confusion that is stabbing at the constraints of my constitution. The time has come, the chapter has concluded, the back cover has closed. I grab that box and close that red door for the last time...

You were a puzzle in pictures from the get go. Moving like water, nothing phased you. I still don't know if anything will. You were laconic yet direct: you asked what I was reading at the moment. I stumbled because how often are you asked that question? But that was a lighthouse alert of who you are. The seeker, the searcher, the explorer of the possible. A sphinx's riddle is never the one they ask you, its the one you find when trying to know them...

Los Angeles. The city of angels. All fallen, of course. A mirage in the desert, an illusion to the weary. A waypoint for the wandering...

How timid you were when we first met. That southwestern charm with a wit and a will. And how much you came to mean to me; words aren't enough and those are my specialty. From simple weekly get-togethers to close confidant, that's how it went. That summer day will stand as a splinter: enjoying a day off and reading on the concrete beach to coming in for the rescue because you asked. What happened to those moments sitting on a porch in winter, rocking in chairs, talking about the future? Where did you go?

The time came to end my west coast endeavor. In a matter of days I packed my belongings into a truck and my life into my car. After a journey across this continental map and many reunions... I found myself back home. Back in New England, back in the land that I come from and which I know better than I know myself. The serenity of silence during a winter snowstorm, the languid lethargy of summer swelter. The explosion of emerald during spring and the myriad color flourish of Autumn. The places I once walked as a child, as a kid, as a very different person...

You proved yourself a hurricane the first night we socialized. An invitation rejected, followed up with a declaration. You carry scars from your past and you saw the same in me. Yet you didn't retreat like most do. You always see into those around you whom you care for, and you set fire to anything that hurts them...

So many years spent alone. My little cave in Charlestown, my Boat House. A place where I could retreat from the world when the day was done. A Kramer-esque neighbor who helped me keep up just enough mischief to remind me of my younger days, yet a place of solitude. I grew complacent, ready to spend the rest of the time I planned alone in my haven...

I never even spoke with you before you were living in my apartment. So young, so kind, so eager. You burn with such a brightness to protect those around you to the point of losing yourself. And yet despite the difference in years and experience in our lives, you became dear to me. I still have the note you gave me for my birthday and it makes me smile...

A single season brings about a wave of change. The comfort becomes uncomfortable and the unexpected becomes dependent. How did I allow my self to become so vulnerable to such an eclectic tapestry? Like a moth in the spider's web I was caught but I welcomed the embrace. Such a change end venture like no adventure I'd taken before....

Mi corazón. Llegaste a mi vida inesperadamente. Y me cambiaste. Qué más puedo decir de ti más allá del hecho de que siempre sacas lo mejor de mí y eres mi familia para siempre?

This house. So many stories unfolded, so many moments both planned and unexpected that resonate like shockwaves in my mind. Those moments of joy like a birthday cake in the face or someone singing Rihanna while cleaning or the general joviality of 'The Bachelor' nights... the house was quite the keeper...

It took so very long for you to finally socialize with this bunch of misfits. Despite MANY attempts prior. Yet you finally broke down and humored a bunch of lunatics. And by doing so, you got to see me and I you and that bond wouldn't have formed without. A pact made, a bond formed, a kinship guaranteed...

It's late. This past week was long and arduous and taxing and tiring. There are times where I doubt if I can persevere or even make it to the end. Yet these scars and stars that I carry give me that strength to do so. 

It is that fickle heart that gives the best strength. In the darkest pits we find ourselves, it is the hearts of those around us that pull us out. 

Sights from a Broken Window

 There is an ominous silence hanging over the suburbs,

    a languid tranquility that suggests rest yet only reminds me of those most anxious moments.

        When did silence become such a dramatic opponent to cause such chaos and anxiety?

I suppose always.

I think of those dawns that I stayed awake for, sitting on a doorstep or perching on a fire escape just to see the rising rose glow of the earliest beginnings of the day. And the ones I ignored to just exist and be surrounded by the weirdly amazing.

How many years have passed since I was me? 

    What shadow do I see that stares back in the mirror these days? 

        Where is that joie du vivre that used to be the unstoppable fire behind these eyes that needed to see and taste and breathe and experience every ounce of life that could be squeezed out of the marrow of a moment? What happened to the Bohemian lunatic that never sacrificed an ounce of self in defense and pursuit of that unknown truth I always hunted for?

The wheels just turn now. Wake, prepare, work, rest, sleep. 

My greatest fear come to pass: I have lost myself in what I am supposed to do. Who I am supposed to be. And that's not even who I thought I was at the time. This Sisyphean merry-go-round monotony is not a future, it is an unseen bear trap along the path that has brought me to my knees in tears. 

How great were the days when you could take command of a lighthouse and just BE.

    

I think back to my early days, long before the ambition. 

        Those simple days with just the world before me and a cadre of weirdly perfect compatriots... all of us trying to figure out our place in this strange world we never felt a part of. And yet I see these beatific saints and sinners find their place and their peace...

            ....    and I remain stuck in the woods, lost in the tornado, trying to find my north.

Honesty to self has to matter for something. More than a blind obedience to expectation. 

            Is it too late?

    I tell myself it's not too late.

                Which truth do I trust?

The Levee

 Here we are.

Where are we?

When did this happen?

When did I forget how to do this? The very reason, explanation for my single-minded reason to exist?

When did I become a shell of the mind and manifestation that I used to be?

When did it all change?

So many fragments from the past that stab like small slivers under the fingernail and yet they go unnoticed. The figments and facades of the past linger like paper cuts unseen yet never heal correctly. You carry those subtle scars indefinitely.

I remember when this was beyond second nature. Words flowed like Angel Falls from my mind to the point that I thought I was going crazy. I could never keep up with the narrative. I lived in the story I was trying to always tell. I couldn't breathe if it wasn't written. I lived with the characters I wrote.

A few years seems line an eternity.

My fingers feel atrophied, coated in rust and decay. Do I even have a voice anymore?

All that I've given, all that I've lost. Was it worth it if I'm so far gone and sinking into the routine? Is this all I am now?

Nina Simone, Miles Davis, and the sounds of an early morning street were the metronome that used to dictate the pattern and pause and pulse of the uncontrollable currant of verbosity that stemmed from my brain. And now I look at a keyboard like an explorer finding an ancient ruin so alien to them they can't comprehend what they see. Am I that far gone?

Be responsible. Be an adult. Be considerate....

    All phrases that come like the first gusts in a hurricane.

        They lash and scratch and score and scar as the billowing thunder cascades down upon me, moving in to break and destroy and annihilate everything that I am.

Faces and friends from ancient days oscillate in the frontal lobe: reminders of the comforts of the past while serving as the sous knife that kills those concepts you've helped onto life a life preserver. When did I forget those who mattered so much to me?

Standing out in the middle of the night, staring blankly at a black tar, slow sludge of a languid river dripping in concealed moonlight; i can't tell if I'm crying or if my eyes are freezing. I see my life in it's entirely pass in the momentary pass of a river glint. 

I am broken. No horsemen can fix this, no kinsmen can amend this. I delve deep into the depths of my shame and sorrow. The only light I see is down in the darkness.

I wake up. I am so much older than I remember. These hands have wrinkles and the grey hair in my bear shocks me still. I glance out the window and see the first break of sunlight creeping over the urban landscape. I close my eyes, unsure of which reality I prefer more.

I walk out my front door, 'Led Zeppelin' performing in my ears. I'm not sure if I can sustain.

"When the levee breaks..."

I continue my stride uphill as the sun crests the red brick mills around me.

When the levee breaks...

        I refuse to be flooded.

RUSH - Dreams

     'I can see them all. Thoughts and lives and dreams that are buried. Are they dust or am I?'

   'I see oceans of souls, lost in walking pets and tasting fruits in markets that are mounds of ash. I see the tears of a scared child frightened by by construction. I feel the joy of a family at a dinner table and their abrupt fear as the night sky transitions from black to the same tangerine hue of their star. I hear the cries of the children as their mother weeps silently, strongly, trying to protect her young. I smell the scent of a burnt world.'

    'I see genocide as I see abundance. Charred husks are talking and laughing and moving about as life should in the same moment.' 

    'The laughter of children echos through these strange honeycomb cluster homes. The scents of wildflowers I've never smelled tinge my nose. There must be an ocean nearby: that sea salt aroma is unmistakable no matter what planet I'm on.'

       "There is a festival in the main square. So many faces that I cannot see. Yet I cannot forget their haunting visages. I see them without knowing them. I know them without truly seeing them. The sky begins to flare, like an orange being crushed slowly. The light becomes unbearable, the cries become indistinguishable. Panic. Fear. Terror.'

    'A lone vessel rests over the planet. A crowning achievement, breaching the confines of the home sphere. The four passengers look on below as their home is consumed by a cascading wave of light and rage. A wave the color of the second sun's setting rips across the surface of their home as breath escapes them. I can feel their destitution and utter terror, but only at a distance. There is a numbness to it, like watching tragedy in a vid stream. I feel every ounce of pain that is coursing through them. The clementine colored cascade finishes its crest and encompasses the planetary sphere. As tears begin to stream down their cobalt cheeks, I know... they know.. we know... they are already dead. Their lives are dead.'

   ' I think I feel tears on my face. When am I?'

***

    Morgan woke abruptly. The sound of the artificial rain was a subtle metronome against her window, a constant reminder of the atmospheric stabilizers of Europa. She was drenched in sweat, her shirt sticking her her skin. She looked around the darkened room frantically, searching for the source of her stress. Her  hazel eyes locked on the display pad near her bedroom door: 01:38:54 local time. She rubbed her eyes and shifted to her side. The thermal conduits were running quiet so her room was an oubliette of silence as she scanned the room.

    'Just the new atmo', she thought as she fluffed her pillows and tried to get comfortable. Within moments she drifted back into sleep.

***

   ' This world is a graveyard. The burned bodies of families lay frozen in place where they sought shelter. Cities are but ashen ruins, the charred remnants of a world. The astronaut returned to her world collapses to her knees, the burnt remnants of a pet Ithkal crumbling in her hands as she knows she will die alone on a dead world, tears coming slowly as does with complete defeat.'

    'I hear the screams as this world is incinerated. I hear the cries. I feel the burn of the fire cascading down from the sky. I die a billion times over..."

***

    Morgan shot upright in bed, he forehead glistening with sweat, her chest pounding. She didn't look around this time. Her eyes locked straight ahead, seeing something that wasn't present.

    "Collin," she whispered through gasps. She knew this was not a dream... at least not her own.

Never Goodbye. Good Journey.

     

    I have always struggled with my emotions. There are so many things I wish I could rationalize and make sense of and apologize for. I've had to come to terms with the fact that mine is a mind unable to perform the way it does for most. As a child, I turned inward and made my own worlds so I could find a place to fit in. Still to this day, I struggle to understand my place in the world around me. I'm blessed to have friendships that defy logic and I've found family because of pure chance. I have encountered people who have believed in me more than I ever could conceive possible. I have been lucky to cross paths with those who would never give up on me... no matter what.

    My friend John was one of those people. My paths have crossed a lot of faces during my many turns around this rock. The first day I met John, he made me laugh... not an easy task. And on that first day that I moved into management, sitting in the basement office with 'The Clash' blasting on my boss's computer... John sneaked in to raid Xochitl's candy drawer, looked at me with all his heart and said "shhh, don't let her know. Also, you're gonna be awesome!"

    John was out the door before I could respond. But I still remember the idiot grin I held after. Someone I'd barely interacted with gave me the kindness and compassion and consideration to reassure me on that first day. I think about that interaction and I still laugh.

    My favorite memory was during a really bad snow storm. We all lived in the area but, thanks to New England, commuting home wasn't an option. I was invited up to my boss's room of the night and I had no idea how funny that night would be. John came prepared: I knocked on the door, I was welcomed with a nip of Fireball whiskey, and 'Nelly' was playing on a speaker. Within three minutes I nearly broke my ribs laughing as John performed a stripper-like display on Xochitl while Leanne and I tried to stop crying from hysteria.

That is who John was.... laughter. He was joy and levity and kindness and sincerity. He embodied the best of all the people I've been blessed to meet along my path. I'm a better person for knowing John, and I will miss his influence and smile. But John will never be gone because of the impact and value he had on those lives he impacted.

Good journey, my friend. May you stand in peace with slow sunsets and quiet, stellar nights. I love you, you magnificent maniac... and I will hold my glass up until we can spill drinks again.

Excising The Scars

 How do you say goodbye?

    How do you learn to move on from a wound that has been a part of you for so long? When every moment since the time that scar formed... when that pain has been a lingering nuisance in the subconscious for so long... how do you let go?

I can't forget those moments together.

    Not the grandiose ones of parties or birthdays or revelry....

        but just the plain simple moments where the world was quiet around us and there was just the sound of us...

            ...breathing.

I don't recognized the face that looks back at me in the mirror. 

So many lines, so many grey hairs that weren't there when it mattered.

And yet I know it's me.

I sit by a river that was never ours, but a place that has become my solace. I read and listen to the wails of frustrated geese and taste the scent the industrial waterway before me, the people milling about, the heavy roadways riding like artificial arteries across the way and I find myself suspended.

        Am I still there,

            or are we still going to be here?

I can't really remember myself before you.

    Is this me even a thing without you?

    

        But I can't sit by the river forever.

Time has that nasty habit of continuing on. Just like that churning Merrimack before me, it pushes forward... cascading over islets and downed branches and boulders and buried hopes. The push of the current never ceases.

Night falls over this quiet extinct city. The sounds of life and love and joy and misery and memory resonate like shockwaves throughout the empty cold twilight. I watch the few passersby pass by, their aimless strangling a beautiful bob in the ebb, the serene bliss of those momentary distractions.

I'm not who I used to be. Neither are you.

    We are not anymore.

As the sky darkens and the stars fall and that condescending crescent grin moves higher over the settling night, I stow my book and I stare out at the onyx paint slick that has become the river.

I can't see it anymore... but I can still hear it.

I can't see you anymore. I can't see what we were anymore.

I'm not sure I can hear it anymore either.

But I hold that sound.

I look up at stars that I see alone.

I feel that scar on my arm from that night.

I look up and I see an empty void.

I'll cary these scars forever.

But I can't rely on them anymore.

The river has continued on,

the waters are now different.