This is actually a journal entry, the beginning is an echo of my fear of the medical complications of type one diabetes, (For more information on the disease: https://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/000305.htm) at a cross section between my anxiety over being kept in the dorm room with some falling friends during 2014.
There’s too much of it. I want to live dammit, let me live. Don’t keep me locked in your grasp. More cage than arms, more entrapping than adoring, let me free. The sun shines, raise the blinds and see it. The world is full of many multitudes of beauty. Just get outside and see it. Take a step outside of paradigm and experience all that makes you Human.
If writing from a first hand experience about diabetes is something that interests you, please comment below, and I’ll look in my goody bag and in the following days I will publish several posts on the subject.
When things are rough, [creativity/ingenuity/resourcefulness] will keep you afloat. In times of calm, it will allow you to fly.
via Musings — Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha
Love the image, love the message, and love the way it’s composed. We need more of this on the internet my friend.
And I’m reminded of the words of our forefathers
The great Emerson, Thoreau, London
The sermon of resourcefulness
And we could all be Robinson Crusoes
Drifting away on tropical clouds
High above the scorned earth
I usually describe my process as working on new material, hitting a wall, then working through a self-critical phase, and then the break through. The moment when I remember why writing was the choice I made.
It makes considering the process of change. One identifies a problem, as one thinks through the process to change that problem, as one receives more feedback (more practice in their craft) they begin to understand how to work the feedback into their work, and they change.
On paper it’s simple, but I surprise myself each day over how easy it is to lose perspective.
My shooting star
The moon’s closer than you
Easier to hold
And in comparison
Its face is soft
You’ve always darted from me
Until I’m trained to your trajectory
I thought I had missed
I had lost you again
The smell of sulfur
And burnt pork
Every time I feel a breeze
I’m hollow Easter candy
I think of you
The hole is left unfilled
And I’m empty
I keep my chin up
with eyes on the empty
mazes of night
The graves in the sky
Hoping I’ll see you
I keep my mind in a haze
My eyes above the clouds
For the ground is too low
For flying birds
The ground is too hard
For bone and feather
The moon may be distant in space and thought
But when I need someone to love
Blowing kisses at the sky
The moon will be the only light
My stepping stones
I’m a glass, half full, placed and forgotten on the windowsill
I like to watch the boys ride by on their bikes
And feel the sun cook my yoke.
The elements and condensation drains
the prolonged winter freezes me in place
like dandelion seeds of pomposity
across the Western frontier
I can’t fill myself with the love of the world
But the woman with the pitcher
She has more to get out of life
Than to be the housewife in the apron
Tending to my needs.
I do my best
But sometimes the water drips dry
And all is lost
An old man in his death bed
Dependency and bigotry
has made us fat , worthless, lazy
All water dries out.
But I was aware from the beginning
All water dries out.
And it isn’t their job
To pave the way to my future
In masculine terms
With their fallen sisters, daughters.
I’d rather falter
The stepping stones
Made from the cadavers
of these innocent women.