Fainting footsteps, like wiping your finger across an old secretary desk - dust be gone, shimmer and glean to a surface of new. 

Reflect the inside, show what's really there. I'm afraid, because I know what shows, and how very uncertain this world turns.

A sun never sets - it only goes to another rise. Make sure that you only remember the things you want to, for fear that the truth will most certainly stab your heart in the future, when the cold winter of realization hits and you feel stone damn cold. Alone never felt so lost. Those are the times that ignorance breeds.

A slew of bargains and dilemmas always will cross the street, and you have you think past the neon signs and taco cart hot smells. Because, truthfully, clearing your eyelids and lungs never felt more vital. And the warming stream of that bourbon pour rushes so many things back to the front of your chest. Then, silence:

Summer air, no traffic, dark.

The jukebox doesn't play, the people don't speak, the dust starts to settle on that shimmer, and it becomes all too uncomfortable that this life you've gone down to is much like the backseat of a taxi, and red lights will be regular staples in learning how to land.

Jarred, hot, pissed - the locks only open from the outside now.

And the sweet waft of lilacs hit my face as I drive through the open streets of perceivable freedom into a land of home.

where am I? oh yeah.

I give my life away to everyone so that when it comes time to have my own life, I don't have any left and all I want to do disappear into the wilderness and build a secret cabin. Leave me alone, I keep saying to myself, but I end up being too nice because life is too short and I don't get to love enough people like I pictured in my head. If I was totally selfish and didn't have the perception that I do, or the heart that God gave me, I'd be skinny, rich, famous, and forsake all the pangs that I roll through to each week just to be around and make sure everyone else is taken care of.

This is all of course only to the Glory of God alone. Apart from him, I'm kidding myself. I have nothing, am nothing, and amount to nothing. He has clothed the lilies of the valley, and feeds the sparrows, and so it remains with me that all I do and have and think and know is because he's so very fiercely gracious, and terribly loving.

And I still get a pit in my stomach thinking that he doesn't convict me of all my sin at once.

Somedays I get so mad that all I can do is get an ulcer. Then I swallow a huge gulp of air and circulation begins to happen again. Things hold me down, but I get upset when I hear of wrong things happening to the wrong people.

In order to stave off curiosity and summertime lonely desire, I have to make duly certain that I'm not going to summer camp, or crossing paths with a female whom I have no intention of knowing, and it all seems nice until ol' Jack  brings up that sore spot. Hot damn that was wily. I just assume posting ludacris signs to get my own space again. 

I want to take a moment to not feel so crippled by anchors of industry and madness. I see why Don only knows work life, and drinking. It suits nicely for a round or eight of mindless self indulgence, and certainly the quicksand of madness.

I'll get out and breathe some air. I'll get going soon, and post a sign for the door to help bring closure for me and that extra space of mine.

 

I forgot.

Worse than leaving the stove on after you drive off for work.

Worse than watching a movie that you know gives you nightmares and makes bumps in the night feel way too close.

Worse than leaving lip balm in the right pocket of your favorite jeans as they go through the washer and dryer.

And I'm trying so hard to remember so it's not a bad repeat or an unwanted sequel. Déjà vu, and it feels like an ambush. There are these moments that feel like there's an out, but I'm stuck in this cyclical culture of clingy, co-dependent sheeple and my conscience won't let me bow out - for I know the pains and problems that lay ahead.

I forgot to care again.

squeaky swings and tall grass

There were many expressions flying through the air, and watching the bustle of city life with the warm dawn of summer leaking into my memory, served my heart this notion that life is more than staying home and cooped up in my head.

Getting out is good because it helps with things getting out. I'm going to take friends out on dinner dates, and start living again. I'm going to write dance music, and night time music, and happy music, and real music. You're going to taste the colors and shapes that explode on the inside, and I'll pair it with a nice glass of wine, or whiskey. I'm going to make the most of right now, because God has given many good gifts and I can't just let another summer go by in limbo.

I don't know what tomorrow holds, or if I'll see it. I might see them until I'm 87 years old.
I guess my point is, I'm turning a new leaf because I'm forcing myself to be in this spot, because I want to get better. Even if I'll still have a big head, I won't be cooped up in it.

New memories to make!