I’ve more than a hundred tasks on my to-do list that might take a hundred years as well to cross out. Why? Because there are a few worlds I keep wishing to step into every now and then without the plague of time and authenticity.
Mind, although in awe of my guiding lights who had shown me how a certain shake, flow and tie-up of words could mount to levels of eminence, I also suffer from an absence of inspiration. Not to mention a periodic review of my pitiful attempts at poetry has persistently been a frightful shudder.
But I am not shamed by my many simple thoughts… for they make me feel still alive.
Lack of imagination and talent won’t ever qualify me to become a pro, yet I figured if this is something I’d be doing fifteen years from now I’d better take steps that could someday culminate in telling myself “you’ve come a long way, baby.”
Admittedly, I’ve been accused of one or two things in my several years of residence on WordPress. And maybe I should’ve pressed that there had never been any inconsiderate intent on my part. I wouldn’t have pushed some connection buttons if that weren’t the case. I am a social being after all, too; granting they’re willing to excuse my extreme fondness toward adverbs, conjunctions, and adjectives which interminably calls for harsh intervention.
That’s faint hope reaching for the kind center of somebody’s wisdom, despite my repeated tumble over shadows and cracks gone wrong.
Mistakes mistakes — with plenty of remorse in its course. That’s the rain falling over this summer’s sadness. For the realm of reading and writing reminds us of our hearts still beating. It’s all or nothing. Bleeding but striving. Breaking yet burning.
While I keep rubbing on such memory; understanding how nothing will ever be mine to keep.
A favorite from my teen-age era:
Well there’s too many windows in this old hotel
And rooms filled with reckless pride
And the walls have grown sturdy
And the halls have borne well
But there is nobody living inside. Nobody living inside.