Reunion/Transition

Could you capture thought and hand it out? You know, pour it into a bowl? Make a meal of it, sustain yourself, get by, maybe even thrive? I think you could.

I have.

Could you set knives on the sill, windows wide open, playground full, inquisitive kids all around, and just go to sleep?

What if you stood at the very precipice of a giant crater? What if the winds that whipped up and licked the edges of that seething black, what if they called out your name? Could you resist? An alluring proposition. Me, I have settled into pillboxes left behind, pocked with the flak of allied armaments. I have watched as the father, backing up, seeking to frame the nuclear, backs himself into the dimpled earth of the coast, the nettled maw, not unlike my own great yawning chasm, and have seen him emerge with my very own eyes. Bloodied, changed somehow. Maybe even a new man of sorts. One with vision. One with a destructive purpose encoded in to his newly born DNA.

It would have been around that time that things started to change. Right around those innocent years for me that things took a turn, followed a fork. We put ourselves at the mercy of the rising tide. locked ourselves into a fortress that protects no one anymore. insulated our ranks from the quicksand that encircled us all, on all sides. And in that journey we watched as dreams faded away in the dull glow of a strange man's headlights. A single blow and youth was destined to die alone.

It might strain the synapses to see so far back, so deep into a world that has never emerged, unlike the bloody father, to accept the mantle of change. In this course, there was an adaptation towards various voices, and the voice in question was the one that spoke in tongues of melody and harmony and rhythm.

This breath that coursed through my lungs was crisp and oxygen rich. And beyond that, it was packed with the full punch of destiny. If you try so very hard, you just might hear the opening strains of the symphony written for no one, written for those who would never listen, for those who care not to hear.

With every step, every depression on the pedal, the ungainly lunging and lurching forward continued, and continues unabated. Maybe a certain level of progress was being achieved. Things this small defy measure. But it may have happened.

A concussive burst. A tidal shock wave leaves not one man standing. The cold hard bite of an open hand in a winter's storm is a firm reminder of direction.

I am plugged in now and I am traversing across miles and years all in an instant. And there are those amongst me who know the way, who have been given tickets for this very same fucked up passage. With the striking of chords and the crash of borrowed brass, it has begun, or it has continued. In all truth, it never actually started, and it will never end.

Because despite it all, the histrionics, the forced exile at the hands of tonal mediocrity, the reluctant decision to accept entropic decay, there is still a witness to the fall, a viewer of the play that runs nightly in the fevered halls of a darkened room.

I am plugged in, watching for signs, falling through the murk, handing off the baton, and heading for the door.