An open letter to that shadow.

I saw you last night, your face skewed and pushed into the foreground, as the entirety of the world my mind had made swept in to take you out of sight. And no running or shouting out could undo the kidnapping of your form. No intensity of remembrance can bring back the moment before, it’s a missing cell from an otherwise flawless retelling. Do you elude me? Or am I pushing you away?

You’ve missed some of the best years of my life while you were having your own. Did you know that I’ve seen the world from a thousand angles and that I’ve seen it all alone? I leave my camera at home. I can’t bear to remember the empty frames.

I stood outside in the rain last night. A few heavy drops slipped through the leaves and branches and found their way to my shoulders.

Underneath the pitter of rain and branches being knocked together, there was no sound past my breathing. It was the first time in as far as I can remember that all thought and movement stopped inside me. As if someone had tripped over the cord that kept me plugged into the outlet on the wall behind the bookshelf. That brief moment where a light dims but is not yet out. Where you can see the last few units of energy burning out, leaving a ghost of an image where it once was bright. I felt my heart slowing and the blood beginning to pool at the bottoms of my feet and the tips of my fingers. Hands heavy and shoulders sagging lower with each exhale of warm air. My eyes blurred out of focus and I lost all sight of the rain.

I saw myself from a distance, grass growing up around my ankles and my countenance set in stone, the traffic light changing in the distance. Every neural pathway cold and taught, as the remaining jolts of charged impulses hovered at the hub of their destination.

It all snaps back violently just as the last function that makes a person alive teeters, taunting my battered systems with its white flag. The world slows as I rush back to life. My lungs filled with the moisture and lowered temperature of the air around me. I am flooded with pictures of a boy coming up for air with the look of salvation written on his face, the sound of doors groaning on their ancient hinges and endless blank pages at the end of a book.

Now I see you. Or I see the missing cell, having been brought in cupped hands and careful steps to a place of safety. I place it on a pillow on the floor and lock the door. Just as I knelt down to look closer I saw you fade back again, a drop of water near an open flame.

So, I invented my own time. I let it slow and stretch as a rubber band shot at a little brother. This whole hour, second, day or whatever it was came together to reveal itself as an existential joke. Well, there I was, rushing through the air, my speed and intensity coming into contact with external forces, each moment slowing my flight exponentially. Landing softly, the fear of impact is quelled. You just smiled about the whole ordeal as you uncovered your face, blushing as you shook off the embarrassing instincts of preservation.

Didn’t you know I never aimed to hurt you? Beyond thought or inspiration, past tears and longing, haven’t you known that all I have ever wanted was to make you forget about the world for a moment and laugh? I hope you keep showing up, it brings me back to life, even if just for the moment.

Lunacy and Libations

Well darling I’m torn between lunacy and libations, a perfect pair, a duo for the blue haired history makers. The men who dwell on consequence and contentious intentions, who postulate and pontificate within the boundaries assigned to them by their predecessors. It’s a story within a story, removed of contractions and words that end with L and Y. A scholar’s way of cleaning up the dirtiness of others lives. But oh what a mess we have left for them dear. Oh how they’ll work to pick apart the pieces of our erratic behavior, and what a chore for them to bend backwards to see through the lens that we used to view this life. To them we’re a generational sickness, brought on by external devices. To us we’re a chorus chant that can’t stop ringing in your ears. We’re the words of rebellion, the sounds of metal hitting lead, the feeling of two souls set apart from the status and a need for more…so much more than the world has to offer.

Do you feel me now? We have been on such separate wave lengths for days. But I see you through the static and the snow. Is this the legacy we are meant to leave? A path of broken glass and signs of forced entry, the hallmarks of our unrest, the calling card we made up on the way. We’ll spend our days in the hills, battling the world and its elements, proving to ourselves that we were made to be weathered and worn. The nights will cloak our movements as we learn how our bodies speak to each other.

I’m OK with this daily bread and the dew on the leaves. I’m content with the fibers and sinews that the ground can grow. And I’m happy with the path that our labor takes. Our hands to the soil, the soil to the sky and the satisfaction of an honest harvest is all that we need. No one need see our shelter, or give guidance to the way we breathe. We have left them all behind, to their ruinous behavior, given them over to the play by play cancer they never could control. Ours will be the dictates of the potter, theirs, the science and dice of death.

Oh what a picture we can create then we close our eyes. Can we use our daydreams as a ruler, a cornerstone upon which we set the foundations of our bed? Can we create a map to overlay our unseen trajectory, one that brings you closer, brings you continuously closer to me? One day, we won’t be able to see were I begin and you end. Our words will be remembered as a single thought, and our life, a defining action. If I’m the fingers, you are the glove. A pair that was always meant to work as one.