I'm here, you're here; we're here

To you:

When we feel most vulnerable, frustrated, or even excited to the touch - that is the time to note.

Poetry is a gift to the masses from those who see the world with - at least, semi - divine eyes, i was told. The perspective drawn, with favorite words repeated and syllables not always aligning, can be significant enough to break new ground in the mind, and to the soul. The words of a poet speak to us all, without a given ear or eye. The sounds of a poem are soothing, yet off-putting, and it's for that reason we write. To do, what is right.

At the current, nature's break in the cloudless sky has shifted. Taking a vacation the calmness has; to speak without pretension, with the flow of the constant to all things genuine and susceptible.

To answer a question to the uncertainty which draws in what or - more importantly - who we love, we so often have words to allocate. Using hyperbole, and conjugations of emotions relative to our current state of life, we utilize formula to tell our friends and our other friends exactly how and what we feel, albeit with the pinch of doubt in our temples.

To answer a question to the uncertainty which draws us into ourselves when times seem overwhelming, and the game being played is in extra innings, we silence our rational congruence and give way to the emotions and fears, we so-more often press under our pinkies.

Checking for responses to defensive remarks, our mind swirls with worst-case, worst-case, worst-case without ever actually providing the 'what ifs' and the 'of which could happens'. Unlike the times of contentment, we are unable to discern the stems of the plants we normally eat, from those we don't eat of.

Where are the sprinklers keeping those plants alive? And the gardner who supplants those toxic soul-ripping stalks, when we need her/him most?

Kafka died today, and he only made it so far. In the state of mind-current, I'll be lucky to make it there. However, in my right mind I don't believe that. And, I don't believe in luck. Or Kafka, for that matter. There seems to exist a conundrum to the writings from those who everyone insists on reading. A silver line of ignorance runs through novel after novel where the protagonist, and the story holds nothing to be fruitful but elements of a passing world; a passing time.


I watch as the students watch videos never seen by these eyes; certainly not to be witnessed on my daughter's screen. Praying a decision such as this is to be made.



Hope breeds in small touches and glances. We need these stepping stones of our beloved's fashioning. How we ask for them, I'll never know. Nor, will i ask. For a gift given is just that; no conditions, but with the upmost of guarantees.

There i go reaching for a response again. To no avail, but my own. For the wind blows me this way and that way, and I find it worthwhile to close my eyes when fog overtakes the bow, and then the stern; causing me more to yearn.

We haven't gotten to the 'you always' (always-is) or even the 'i wish you would haves', but I'm hoping we do someday soon, while noting the bond experience creates for two people. The assurance to breathe in each other's presence, fully. The willingness to yield all, asking for nothing in return. And the none-too laughable realization of I'm here, you're here; we're here.


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