A little bit of CrrN mixed with more

 You left your fingerprints on my heart

and no matter what I do I can't

seem to wash them off.

I can't count

how many times

I've tried to leave

you behind since 

you left me.

I've tried escaping

to faraway lands to try

to find another you, but

I carry my stained heart

with me.  I carry your

fingerprints with me.

I've washed in others'

oceans but they're just

deserts next to you, and

I need water.

Maybe I cannot

remember the last time

you left my arms, but

I still see you walking

away like it was 

yesterday.  I'm convinced

you spend less than

second thoughts on me

even though I somehow

cannot find the escape

door from these

feelings, this tactile

emotion.

How will I ever

find something like

that?  Someone like

you?

Rosé Noir

Remember when you reached for my hand in the dark and the world around us fell apart?  Remember when the shadows didn't envelop us in their brazen arms?

Now I'm just holding onto this loneliness clumped in a ball of wrinkled papers.  They're not even notes we wrote each other.  They're the crumpled pieces of potential that I wasted between dreams.  I slept so long that I forgot how to daydream, or its use was lost in the burning embers.

Now there's a war between us and I never even heard your declaration.  I just wanted to hold you in that place where the glow burns from the inside.  You know I'm at least a romantic, but sometimes I get lost in the semantics of it all.  The forest is made of trees and I can't stop comparing the birches with the oaks and the cedars with the aspens.  I can't see your initials in the tree we carved anymore.  Perhaps it's just ashes now, and you're not a phoenix, not for me anyway.

I burned that letter you into my chest and now I can't see anyone else like that.  So I walk aimlessly through this timeline where the gear is stuck on the speed of life.  My dreams are just a substitution for a warm or weighted blanket.  The pen and paper require a certain posture that my scoliosis is incapable of maintaining for prolonged periods.  So instead I fall into disrepair and don't know the number of a reliable mechanic.  Even if I did, he would likely be outside my network.

Ni modo.  I guess the world will keep spinning and I'll keep trying to keep my balance.  It's harder to fall if I'm grabbing one ear with my right hand and extending my other arm out to steady myself.

Maybe she's outside somewhere and these padded walls aren't just pillows.  Wake me up!

Abolition (The Compassion Manifesto Pt. 1)

 Maybe I am radical.  Maybe I have let these ideas imbed themselves somewhere deep inside my consciousness, but is that such a bad thing?  It seems increasingly likely that the world's brain has been washed "clean."  Like the gardener has neglected to till the soil for some time now.  All these systems are built on oppression and keeping others down, whether that was their explicit or intended purpose or not is the present concern.  It's the undoing, the stripping down, and the deconstructing that needs to occur to create space for rebuilding, renewing, and healing.

This is not a manifesto on destruction or finding new ways to vilify each other.  It's not defining "our" colors so in the spotlight so that "your" and regulating your colors to the shadows in the process.  It's creating a more just society, a place where we all have equal voice, where we do not have to step on others just to be heard.  Simultaneously this is not a place where we aim to erase anyone's ancestors.  The history means something, as do the future and present-day.

If our aim was to erase the oppression of the past our journey would be endless; and while the work must continue and there must be consistent revisiting for this system to equitably provide, our platform cannot begin or end with the erasure of systems.  The past is a dreadful place, I think many of us can admit that even if times were simpler for some, prices may have been reasonable for some, and resources appeared to be limitless for some.  It is a deceitful lie to gaze into the window of time gone by with rose-colored glasses.  Similarly, just dreaming of future utopias without taking meaningful steps in the present is next to futile.

There must be places for forgiveness first.  There must be room for grace, compassion, forgiveness, and mercy for humankind.  We banish everything that is not built from a place of compassion first.  Banish them not to an exiled land in someone else's backyard that we will never visit, but from a breathing existence.  I understand that there is much value to be found in many systems, policies, and procedures.  However, until we allow ourselves and our neighbors to scrap the untrue, to remove the toxic fear, and to truly eliminate injustice, no one will be truly free.

When no one is free, we are just fooling ourselves into thinking that we have some real sense of self-determination.  No matter how transparent the fishing line may be that is holding us up, it will remain there until we have the courage to cut ourselves loose.  And some of us may not be able to cut loose the strings ourselves, truly we all need each other.  This will take time, and along the way some of us cutting strings may do so only to tie new ones, but those are precisely the moments where we need each other.  It's about interdependence, not self-reliance.  It's community, not individual strength.  It's accountability and transparency, not blind obedience.  And finally, it is collective unity through shared power, not the mystification of the powers of a few.

This cannot be an individual journey.  This cannot be a radical notion scrawled on a bathroom door somewhere.  It has to be the conscience of the people or it will be nothing.  And it has to be visited and revisited over and over again.  If it is a brief moment in time, a phase of awakening, an age of renewal, it will be just another paper system doomed to destruction.  This has to be the beginning of it all, a place where new begets new and change begets change so as to bring about something meaningful and sustainable.  Something solid though simultaneously moldable.  When the foam on the coffee has lost its color, scrape it off and pour something new.

Scar Tissue

You did your job.  You killed the kid inside me.  The little boy playing in the shadows with the scar on his belly.  You did it.  I know that’s not what you wanted to do.  I know I could never tell this to you, but something about it feels real enough to be true.  Something about it resonates in this space.

What was life like for that little boy?  Where did he turn when the words reaching back were like locked windows?  As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned to see who I am in different ways.  I’ve learned who I am, who I was, and some of who I can be.  I’ve had to strip some of the trauma from my back like a bandage holding my soul together.  Some of the people that were previously closest to me have been pushed aside to make room for me to find who I am.

Something wonders if I’ve had to erase parts of me to get to the true layers beneath.  And there is doubt inside, doubt on both sides really.  Like, who am I if that part of me was just several projections built by others?  And on the other end, who have I been these last 10 years if not myself?

So yeah, maybe you killed the little boy inside, but a man is growing out from his shell.  These days there’s not much that I’m proud of, the wind sort of blows me back and forth, up and down.  A small mistake can take a big toll, a simple gesture can make a huge difference.  The depression can be kept at bay for the most part, but there is little to fill the void that it leaves behind.

Lately I’m grasping at straws with the hopes that someone will help me find the right one.  “I’m willing to share some more with you if you have time” or “Let’s find a way to collaborate.”  Not much has accumulated from it yet, but I’m younger than I give myself credit for.  Maybe Mexico is closer than a pipe dream, maybe I’m falling into something that I can’t see, something good.

Mostly ghostly questions

 It’s been a while, but what is normal anymore?  All the melancholy and deeply steeped despair we held before is nothing like the apocalypse we live in these days.  We hope would have thought we’d be here back then?

When I was a boy, I wanted to be a man, and now that I’m grown, I long for youth again.  I guess it’s true what they say, youth indeed is wasted on the young.  And me, the one who needs company, the one who could use a chair so that someone would push him, I’m the one that’s out here lost in the wild.  How could I let myself be tricked into this?  How could I succumb to this?  Did I succumb to this?  Didn’t I elect to do this on my own?

On my own.  On my own again.  There it is.  Here I am and there they are, the screams on the other side of the wall.  Screaming inside my chest, something wants out but my arms aren’t long enough to reach to where you are.

Why does my heart do this?  We never were anything, we never had anything.  So why does my heart reach for something that was never there?  Where does all of this longing come from?  Every time I see another one gone (paired up) I’m a wreck.  Every call that goes unanswered.  Every time you never say “no” because you’re afraid of how I’ll respond.

It’s more than a few men and they’ve ruined it for us all.  It’s more than a few men and I understand why you’re afraid.  I wish you could just say “no” so I know.  I wish I could hear something back.  There is a gap, a void where you could be but I don’t know if that’s where you should go.  I don’t know where you belong, but your nobody’s property.  It’s okay to be afraid, I just wish I could hold onto that for you.

Everything I do in this little gap in the wall.  Everything I do in this exposed brick of a chest is futile.  Do you see the aesthetic of my upper body?  Do you see who I’ve become?  Like a shadow on the wall that you walk by.  A shadow speaking with no response.  Am I a phantom to you?  Am I a catfish you left out in the sun to dry?

Who am I telling this to?  Why are you listening?  Why isn’t there an audience to any of this?  Just whispers, My words are barely audible, but you hear them.  Why don’t you respond?  Who will help me find something to plug this soul into?

A little equity and More than Just Plus Signs (+)s

 It can't be just a buzzword.  It has to be more than a trend.  We can't be a people who just use our words for our own selfish "likes" and comments.  We need action beyond a screen.  Our sisters and brothers are literally dying.  No, I am not using that word in the recent trendy fashion; I mean what I say.

I can't stand to witness my the death and defamation of my family members.  I'm pulled into the story because our chords are connected.  I cannot swipe past it and try to pretend that it's not happening.  Even if I did, I cannot claim ignorance.  That is not ignorance, that's indifference.  That's numbing.  That's wishful thinking that maybe I'll forget about it and can go about my day.  That's privilege veiled under the mask of indifference.  I cannot abandon my own kin.

And you are my kin.  You are my brother.  You are my sister.  We are in this together.  Victim.  Perpetrator.  Mother.  Father.  We are in this together.  We cannot keep painting with such thick brushes and hope that magically things will get better some day.  Small stones create many ripples.  Sure, large rocks make a big splash and if that's what you have then do it, but if all you have are pebbles then make the most of them.

Please do not give in to the selfishness that tries to tell you that your greed is something to be celebrated.  And you too, don't let those liars convince you that taking time for yourself is selfish.  We all need our own time.  We all need different things at different times.  As I like to say, "we have different relationships with different people for different reasons."  It's okay to be in a different place than those around you.  It's normal.

Speaking of normal, that's okay too.  It's perfectly normal to be imperfectly weird.  There is no problem with being a little mundane or ordinary.  You don't have to do something extraordinary to prove your meaning.  Don't you know that your being here is already so significant?  How fortunate the world is to have someone just like you!  How lucky are those who get to surround themselves with you!

And you, in the back, by yourself.  You too!  No, you're not going unnoticed.  Nor are we here to call you out.  We just want to say we see you too.  We know you need your alone time too and we respect that.  We celebrate you for having the courage to lean into that.  People may have tried to call you out for that at different points in your life, saying you're too shy or timid, but you know yourself better than that.

You're not too shy, you're just as you were meant to be in this moment.  There may be moments when you need to push yourself to jump out of your comfort zone before it becomes complacency, but that's not always you and that's okay.  The world needs your quiet, your soft-spoken absorption of your surroundings.  Even when you're not talking, we know your wheels are still turning.  Your silence does not mean you are absent.  On the contrary, there are moments when you are more present than the rest of us as you soak in all your surroundings.  Thank you for setting such a profound example for us about what healthy boundaries can look like!

To all the rest, or no, to all of you.  Something good can still be coming.  We were the generation of potential, but we haven't lost it yet.  We're still creating our world.  Everyday we're creating the world we want.  These little ripples feel so shallow sometimes.  This sliver of hope often feels like despair, but we can make it.

So

until next time

don't let the fear

of the unknown

keep you from

curiosity and

        being

known.

Uppercase Space

I thought I left you in the background somewhere.  I thought you were the one that even if I returned to we'd never be.  I guess I was wrong.  I thought I left you in the recesses of my mind, somewhere I'd never find you.  So then why do I go looking for you.  Why do I look for hidden love and profound emotions in a place where the strings have been cut, or perhaps burned at both ends?

I see you in the distance and then feel the feathers on my fickle heart.  "Let go," I tell it.  "Let go, so you won't fall deep into the great despair again."  But it cannot hear me among the shouts for connection and something true and firm to hold onto.  I'm wasted or wasting this life again.  I'm living in the place between moments once more, these capital or uppercase spaces.  I'm somewhere between the there and then and can't rely on myself to put me back together again.

Sure Humpty Dumpty fell, but it wasn't up to him to place all the pieces back where they belong.  There was no way for him to fix himself.  An egg cannot reach his legs, let alone learn to glue his fragile shell together.  That's me; a fragile shell with some sort of yolk inside sloshing around.

Mindful moments for me are about living in the present and really feeling it.  Living in this uppercase space means learning to emphasize the here and now and nothing.  It means everything is now, everything is here.  There is no "What will tomorrow bring?" or "I could have done so much more."  No, there is only this, here, and now.

I've made it through everything up to this point I guess one could say, but what does that even mean?  How does any of this work?  How does any of it even begin to make sense?  I don't want to numb myself to get by.  I don't want to fall asleep so I don't cry.  And I don't want to find somewhere to plug myself in just to abandon the thoughts (the truth?) of who I am.  I am still exploring everything here, although the discovery is such a slow process.  With all the tasks and chores ahead of me, I find myself in a mental paralysis unable to move forward or make headway on anything that matters.  I'm a doorframe; just step right through me and go about your life.

"Next.."

On Systems

Here's the thing, I agree with you, many of our systems are in fact flawed, corrupt, and otherwise broken. However, I also understand that systems are made up of human beings, and humans by nature are imperfect.  Hence the imperfect nature of systems, no matter if they are global, interpersonal, or anywhere in between, is natural.

With that in mind, I believe there are a number of ways that we as imperfect people can attempt to correct or alter systems with different degrees of effectiveness.

First, we can observe a system from afar and complain about its insufficiencies, the injustices it creates, and all other ways in which it is ineffective.  To complain about a system does little more than to bring attention to a problem.  I equate this to a poorly written social documentary.  Whenever I watch a documentary on a social ill or problem, I hope to have some sense of how to address the issue at hand by the time the film has concluded.  Now granted, these potential solutions may only be temporary fixes or may not be directly feasible for myself as an individual.  Nevertheless, there is hope that somehow the problem or issue at hand may be manageable.

However, a poor documentary ends with little to no practical for resolution for little to no one.  This is equivalent of highlighting a problem and doing nothing about it, often criticizing those responsible for it in the process.  Sure, this brings some awareness to the issue little else.  These muckraking commentaries or documentaries are little more than a platform for complainers to whine about their view of social ills.

In the same way, to critique a system's insufficiencies or other problems is just that: a public complaint.  It is an irate citizen complaining at a public forum about the toxic waste seeping into her private pool.  Her anger is real and perhaps her concern is valid.  However, it is likely that her concern will go unnoticed or unaddressed as those working within the system may find it difficult to see past her visceral anger. (See Tone Policing)

A second way that we can attempt to correct a broken system is to spit fierce venom at it directly and confront the problem head on.  This can sometimes take the form of an ad hominem argument when viewed from one angle.  While addressing the principal concern of a system may appear ideal in practice, the issue here is the way in which the concern is addressed.

Oftentimes when someone enters a new organization or role she is able to offer a necessary outsider's perspective to those who have been enmeshed in their bubble for any number of years.  This can be extremely helpful for the organization, agency, system, etc. in question.  However, the new individual and system must come up with an effective way of communicating with each other.  That is to say, the individual and the system must learn to understand each other and, in a way, speak each other's language before making any sort of real, meaningful, and lasting change.  Otherwise, the change risks being ineffective or seen as a judgmental critique of ongoing practices.

This gets to the third, and perhaps most effective, way of creating meaningful change: calculated constructive criticism shared in a similar language over a period of time.  Each aspect of this method is critical, as if you leave one out the whole process may be in jeopardy.  First, the method must be calculated, meaning it is well thought out and planned by those who wish to create change.  It cannot be something that is just done on a whim or it will likely create further systematic problems.

Second, the criticism shared by the outsider must be understood to be done in a constructive manner.  When one is receiving constructive criticism, she is encouraged to remove herself or any feelings of personal judgment or hostility towards her from the situation.  This is how constructive criticisms work.  Think, for example of the way in which art critiques work: an artist presents her work to a group of peers in an effort to gain feedback (whether positive, negative, or neutral), and then she does her best to receive it all objectively.  It is paramount that during such a critique, those who are offering their input do their best to provide honest feedback and attempt to remove the artist from her work.  In some cases, it is often beneficial to have the artist's name removed or masked from the critics' view to avoid this very thing.  That is often why you may see researchers' names removed from a study when they are being considered for publication: to avoid undue bias and prevent criticism toward a person or institution rather than the information presented in the study.

The third element of creating meaningful change is the importance of shared language.  The importance of speaking a shared language cannot be understated.  Consider for instance the vast diversity of acronyms found in a number of professions and organizations.  A fairly well known mistake was immortalized on the internet when someone mistook the shorthand "lol" to mean "lots of love" rather than its common interpretation of "laughing out loud."  Granted, that is not a necessarily an acronym, but it is easy to envision how a misunderstood acronym can lead to misunderstanding fairly quickly.  The same can be said of terms that mean one thing in a particular profession's jargon and something very different in a another's.  Consider the term computer that not long ago was used as a job title in the accounting field I believe.  However, now a computer is more likely to be the medium through which you are reading this than what a profession you aspire to.

Each of these elements combine to create an ideal manner in which to create lasting and meaningful change to flawed, broken, and/or corrupt systems.  As the saying goes, Rome wasn't built in a day and neither are many of the systems that run the world.  With that in mind, it will take time and considerable effort to create and ensure meaningful change in any system; and really, because, as mentioned before, systems are created by imperfect people, the best way to create effective systems is to regularly promote a culture that encourages open and constructive criticism.  With this in mind we are more likely to catch our errors before they have a chance to negatively impact a large number of individuals and other interconnected systems.

Or maybe I'm just naive.

Romance

Romance.  What is it to you?  What words or images does it conjure up in your mind?  Do you think of candlelit dinners or that sentimental movie where an old man tells his story to his memory-depleted lover?  Or maybe to you it is just the gentle brush of your partner's hand against yours.

All of those examples may very well be romantic, however I believe that they represent a large misinterpretation of the word romance.  You see, romance to me can be so many things.  It can be the glorifying of valor and honor in an propagated effort to recruit more able-bodied soldiers for war.  It could also be the sepia toned photographs with curled edges one finds in the attic after a loved one has passed.  Still, romance could even be the feeling inside brought on by the sound of big bands playing on an old wooden and brass phonograph, or perhaps a period piece that so accurately portrays a time that has past and enraptures its viewers.

You see, romance to me is sort of like coming home.  It's what I imagine comfort food may be to some, or a warm slice of homemade apple pie with just one scoop of french vanilla ice cream.  Romance to me is like a tall glass of nostalgia made just for me and just for this moment.  I am not saying that those other manufactured moments of perceived intimacy cannot be romantic.  What I am saying is that is that those are but a small sample of true romance.

Admittedly, not all romance is positive.  As I mentioned above, sometimes romance is used as a method of propaganda.  Marketers, advertisers, recruiters, politicians, and more know that we are motivated by deeply set emotions, especially fear and love.  If these people can attach their messages to something that pulls at our heartstrings, they know that we are often more likely to accept or "buy" their message.

For this reason, I believe that critical thinking is a skill that is so important.  I do not want to live in a world where nuance is is subjugated or coopted into a world of false dichotomies.  The world is more than black and white.  I will admit that much of romance is brought on in works of fiction and fantasy, and such romance is admirable when it is done right.  However, even in such works of fiction it can help to recall that the story that we are absorbing through our eyes, ears, and other senses, is passing through a number of filters.  There are the filters of the original storytellers, the membranes of those who may be retelling an old fable, the funnels of the artists using their skills to transport us into another dimension, and the lenses of our experiences through which we take it all in.

I guess all I'm saying is two things: First, romance done right is mesmerizing.  It can transport us from a bland summer day on an open field to galaxy lightyears away.  Secondly, be careful what you allow yourself to fully absorb into your being.  Learn to think critically so that you do not allow others' unanalyzed thoughts to become your own.

And yes, I am aware of the irony (counterintuition?) of that final sentence, but how else could I say it?

A Small Skirmish

You taught me efficiency and they label me with "procrastinate."  You taught me to use my resources and they tell me I'm a mooch, a pest, and a leech.  You encouraged me to, "Go anywhere!" and "Be Anything!" and they reach for their strings to tie me down.  This world can't hold me down.  This world can't tell me who to be or who I am, although I endlessly ask them for clarification.

You advised me never to be afraid to ask questions and they break out the muzzle.  "Don't keep us here longer than we need to be," they complain.  The peculiar thing is that they were never here to begin.  Their minds have been fixated on former selves, covetous longings, and romantic desires, but not here.  They try to shut me up so that they can escape to where they imagine their dreams are waiting for them, but then complain that nothing ever comes to fruition, at least not the way that they had imagined.

Maybe it's not my place to speak these words.  Maybe this is just pointing fingers, but what if it's not?  What if it's more than that?  What if there is meaning to the madness?  Don't you want to know if there is something buried below the superficial stickers that the world tries to stick on you?  Wouldn't you want to discover what is hibernating deep inside?  Or are you so afraid of the unknown that you would rather plaster further layers of predictable pain on your person?

Stanzas to fill the In-Between

This movie's boring, mundane even.  Maybe a month ago it still held onto some novelty, but no more.  I want to start a new one; can we stop and begin again?

I thought life was living, but somehow it's all the in-between times, like this.  Surely there is light somewhere beneath this crack in the surface.  And here.

I'm a torn and fraying noose ever since you cut me loose.  I'm brain without a skull, unprotected and dull.  A sponge that can't release the pain, the trauma, and the rain.  No, not without you cradling my splinters in your handmade mittens.

There are faint whispers here, but nothing comes to life in a vacuum. Am I sweating or is that your steady pulse shaking the table?

Please don't go there, don't leave me unless you're gone for good.  You know I can't cut the strings myself. My patience is so thick that I can't breathe beneath it.  You understand don't you?

Lust Haunts Me

 I needed you and all you did was give me a passing glance.  You held me up like a prop in your life and that's all I ever was.  Still, why can't I leave in the past where we were?  Why do I go digging through the cemeteries of unrequited loves?  Why can't I leave you and move to green pastures?

And in these moments where everyone is so far from me, farther than physical distance, I return to the vast expanses where I left all of you.  All of me feels like a remnant casting fickle shadows in the still breeze.  I pick up the pieces of my heart that I hardly knew had broken apart from who I was.

And on some occasions the listeners listen too closely to who they think I am.  And then the other times they don't take me seriously enough.  So then I retreat to my interior like in these moments, hoping maybe there I will find a truer version of myself. Hoping, somehow I'll find a new part of me previously hidden.

I felt like I knew you so well and you never knew me.  Now, neither of us know who was or who I've become.  Maybe I'm a beautifully textured surface waiting for the right words.  Maybe I'm a fish in shallow water.  I see no reflection in the mirror.

Get Outside

 I need people.

I knew it before.  I was crying out for community before, but it was all a whisper in the dark.  Now the people are gone or far away and I'm all by myself.  I need an external force.  I don't think you understand this.  People say, "Pick yourself up," "Do it for you," or "You'll never love someone until you can love yourself," but do I not know myself?  Can't I think critically about who I am?  Sure, I have blindspots like the rest of us, but I need something from the outside to push inside of me, to make me go, to ignite me.

What does a solitary man do in the midst of the silent worldwide chaos?  Like noodles dancing mad above my head.  The cords attached to me are loose like live wires.  Don't step close to me or you may shock yourself.

Wear a mask, run for shelter, don't tempt me.

Social interaction is rare these days and the live wires protruding from my brain are the only animated part of me that make sense.

Maybe there is wind outside, but it seems my spirit's left.  I'm a shell, can't you see me?  Everything evaporated but the disaster; I'm still here.

Impetus of the Movement or The First Step to Self-Discovery?

Sure, you can kill the martyr, but don't you know what that will do?  Don't you realize that's what he wants from you?  Kill him and watch him resurrect in the thousands of faces around you.  In your effort to make him disappear your garden will grow with more weeds than ever before.

Yeah that's what he wants, this masochist, this cult leader, this creator, this destroyer.  Kill him if you wish, but just know that his roots run deeper than the soil underneath him.  He has entangled himself in the lives of everyone he's met so you will have your work cut out for you.  He's grafted into every living thing he's ever touched, this world is flooded with his toxins.

 

Cut him down, chop him up, and burn all that remains.  Still, you will not destroy him.  He is the destroyer.  He'll destroy everything but himself, for that is what makes him who he is.  If the martyr kills himself he fails his mission.  He has to convince you that he is the the victim and that he is the enemy.  He drives you to anger, to rage, and to hatred, all with a shallow smile peeking through his teeth.  He knows you see through him, but that is his intent, to get you to fall into this thinly disguised trap he's laid.

Poor man, poor suffering soul.  He truly believes that he is flawed and that no one loves him, or rather that no one will love him otherwise.  That is how his story came to be.  Someone or something convinced him many years ago that he was nothing if he was not suffering.  He can no longer see any different?

Can you cure him?

That's what he's really asking.  Can you peek inside him to find who he was before all of this?  He truly is a sad soul stuck in this delusion, this fiction.  Inside that façade there is someone there, someone real, someone beyond suffering, but he doesn't know that man anymore, nor how to find him.  He's searched so desperately for countless years, but somewhere along the dusty road he forgot what he looked like.  He forgot how to find the man behind the mirror without any aide at his side.

He only knows himself through the eyes of others; that is why he clings to you.  He's a parasite, but not by choice.  He wishes he could be himself, but he no longer recognizes who that is.  He'll disguise his hurt, his brokenness in the perceived innocence of an orphan child longing for a caretaker.  He'll numb the pain with temporal pleasures, even try to sleep in the hope that he'll wake up from this nightmare.

Still, all the suffering he endures is hidden by the hurt he lets the outside world see.  If he would let them in, if he could just be vulnerable for a time, then maybe he could rediscover himself.  But instead he urges you to strike at him, to make the first blow.  His delusion has made him think that only this will remove the thick layers built around his heart.  The soft, almost innocent, and yet somehow sinister glare of his eyes whisper "kill me," but it's the gentleness that holds you back.  You cannot destroy a child, you know there is a boy inside there.

Somehow you have to find a way past his cardboard cutouts and all the layers built by years of scars.  There has to be some way you can open him up to himself.  Maybe you can wound him in a way that runs deep, a way that won't feed the martyr, but rather burst through the beast to puncture the boy.  Somehow, you hope, the boy will return before the beast takes over.

Somewhere inside the boy hopes for this too.  Somewhere inside the boy cries desperately to be set free.

Yesterday's Remains

It started with a virus.  It started simply enough.  Surely we can recover from this eventually.

Remember when this normal was "new"?  Remember when the world did not revolve around you?  There has to be something here.  A purpose?  A tangent?  A discourse?

Yesterday the words were here and I fell asleep or exhausted my creativity elsewhere.  I guess I'm still there.

Can't You See It's Raining?

Like an addict in a torrent plugging holes in the attic.  I'm doing everything to keep the real me from understanding who I am.  My ego takes fear and dresses it in love to keep me in the dark.  It flips the switch on or lights a flickering match in this darkness in an effort to deceive me for even five more minutes.  My ego is the best at hiding its true intentions.  It does not wish for me to see beyond the crack in the door where the light is.

Plugging holes gets monotonous really fast.  I can move from one room to the next, one couch to the next, but there is little difference.  What about community?  What happened?  How did I leave it all behind?  How did I leave you all behind?  Escaping into the shadows doesn't feel like the quick abduction by a phantom.  It's a slow and winding path where the light gradually fades.  So gradual is the disappearance that it feels more the exciting acts of positive rebellion.

Is that what all of this is?  Is it my ego hiding me from the truth?  Or perhaps even this is one of its strategies to push me further.

I need to get to know myself more.  Who can start me on this journey?  I want to see who it is writing this and to have a conversation with him.  Where do I start?  How can I meet him?  Does anyone know how to contact him or where to begin these conversations that seem to have to begin within?  Within what?  Within who?  Within how?

The Muses Reaching

We etch our emotions in digital concrete and still we wonder why we speak through so many filters.  Is it any wonder why so many of us are hesitant to truly speak our minds when our former presents stain what would have been our futures with scarlet letters?

We long for transparency, intimacy, and authenticity and then turn quickly to slap another's cheek.  How can we escape this potent cycle of polarities and opposites?  Who will be the light to guide us in this dark tunnel vision?  Is there anything echoing in these chambers aside from confirmation bias and the synonyms and metaphors for that we allow in?  When we lose the key to the outside world, how do we expose ourselves to diversity and difference?

The Limits of Language

Life is perception.  Sharing perception is communication.  Explaining communication is description.  Analyzing description is interpretation.  Understanding interpretation creates definition.

And the limits to definition may create misconception.  Language is limiting.  Yes, language is powerful and to some extent it is what separates the humans from other animals.  However, language, art, and other forms of expression are all incomplete.  Have you thought about how although we may try to "fully" describe something, it can still allude us.  For example, how does one describe the color cerulean blue to a person who has been blind their entire life?  Another example, can someone write a poem, paint a picture, or even sing a song that will make a stranger fall in love?

No, and infatuation is not love.  Can someone remind me of that?  That infatuation is not love.  I'm falling for feelings and at the same time I'm falling apart.  There are parts of me that remain intact but like a lot of people right now I am so craving community, social interaction, or just the right people to respond or say something, anything.

Life lately is Groundhog Day.  Everything's the same and all my efforts to change it go unnoticed or they fall on deaf ears.  I want to step outside myself and see who I am or how they see me but my skin fits too tightly.  I can't leave this place.  Yes, it's physical distancing, not social isolation, and yes we live in an age where technology allows us to remain connected although we are apart.  But this isn't connection.

Where does my heart find these strings I thought I cut long ago?  Who is leading it to long-forgotten dumpsters?  Why does infatuation keep finding me?  How do all these chains know what it takes to bind me?  When will I learn to step out of my own prison that confines me?

Who is this behind me?  Maybe she's somewhere inside me.  I cannot escape the alliance inside me.  No one will enter into these shadows if I do not invite them.  And the ones I invite are those who are so far that my words never reach them.  Emotionally unavailable.  Why do I fall?  Why can't I stand still and be content?  Will there be a moment that this all makes sense?  How do I say "yes" to today, push the past back where it came from, and let the future embrace me in its time?

No, it's not likely you can understand me, and no I'm not trying to step above you or complicate me.  I'm just leaving here what it's inside me.  I need it to escape.  Somehow.  I need to escape.  Somehow I need to reveal what's inside me.  I need something beyond wires and cables, doors with windows, and animals in cages.  I am beside me but my skin is woven too tightly for me to find me.  I cannot find solace in hollow words; you must know that by now.  Words do not define me.

Every definition is limited.  Why are there multiple definitions?  Because definition is perception.  And perception is left up to interpretation.

Maybe one day this will all make sense.
Maybe some day I will have a revelation.
Perhaps soon shall arrive a sense of realization.

Living in the Hallway

To all the world living in the hallway these days,

I think all of my life up to this time has prepared me for this moment.  I think it is moments like this that I am most qualified for.  I have lived in the hallway for many days, if not years, of my life.  The hallway is a strange place to be in, but we must not forget that it too holds importance.

Just like any other room in the house of life, the hallway is in fact a place.  Many times when we are in-between things (a job, relationship, moments of certainty or clarity, etc.) it can be difficult to focus on the here and now.  I especially find this difficult.  I'm not completely certain as to why this is so often the case for me, but I believe it has something to do with my understanding (or perhaps view) of time.

Oftentimes, I find myself in a place of longing.  Longing to be be through with a situation, hoping to be in a better place, whether emotionally, mentally, physically, or otherwise, or perhaps it is reflecting back on a past version of myself with rose-colored glasses.  A number of years ago, someone shared with me her view of these moments as "living in the hallway of life" and it really resonated with me.

You see, when we are so intently focused nostalgias of the past or dreams of the future, we can often miss the present life that is occurring around us every moment.  I do not think that this feeling represents that of the minority, particularly in times of uncertainty such as the current international pandemic.

Professionals working in the helping field like myself will be very familiar with the term mindfulness.  In the last few years, mindfulness has been a buzz word that has been tossed around to refer to practices such as coloring mandalas, practicing meditation, and deep breathing, among countless others.  It is my view that there is a correlation between the recent emergence of mindful practices and much of society's "need" for distraction.

With all of this in mind (no pun intended), I would like to humbly offer my own brief suggestion.  Before doing so, I must confess that although my life has been composed of innumerable hallway moments, I do not always succeed in embracing the hallway.  So, to those of us finding ourselves living in one of life's hallway moments, may I offer a simple, though perhaps profound, piece of advice:

Look around you and recognize that life is happening today.

Yes, it is true that life happened yesterday, and of course, for many of us there will be life to live in 40 seconds, two hours, seven days, and maybe even 19 years.  However, life is happening today.  It's going on right now.  Whether we choose to admit it or not, life is every moment, and every moment we are breathing is life.  It could be argued that even when we hold our breath life continues, but I will not slide down that rabbit hole at this time.

In the end, all I am trying to say is that I hope that you (and I) can find ways to embrace the life going on at this very moment and resist the temptation to see it as something going on around us.  We are not Saturn with life as our rings waiting for us to jump on board.  Those rings are dusty, and so is a life lived waiting for the living to happen.  There are moments in life that will feel monotonous, boring, and perhaps a sense of being stuck, however let us choose to embrace those moments as they come to us and as they are.

Do We Need Politics?

Can there be law (and order) without politics?  It sure seems there could be some greater sense of order without it all.  By that I mean it's pretty easy to imagine people actually getting along instead of just sitting around arguing all the time if politics were somehow eliminated from the scene.  How could a republic function without politics?  Or is it even possible?

It seems like a place without politics would have to be a location free from opinion.  For aren't opinion and differences of perspective the parents of politics?  If everyone agreed on everything what would be the need for politics (if any)?  I feel that I grew up largely in a blind bubble when it comes politics.  Now, mind you, this bubble is not a place where politics was nonexistent.  Rather, my eyes were closed to politics and its effects both in my life and the community.  It is strange to consider that reality today, but at this moment I believe that it is true.

Yes, politics stem from differences of opinion and perspective, but why are politics necessary in this 21st Century world?  I understand the necessity and value of varied perspectives and a wide spectrum of tastes and interests, but politics, is that something we need?  Maybe there is a different system that could work more effectively and efficiently.  Perhaps something like a balanced system that swings like a pendulum when necessary.  Maybe I'm a romantic idealist in all of this or maybe this is none of my business to discuss.

On a someone tangential note, has anyone every truly considered the phrase (title?) "leader of the free world"?  I think it's rather interesting that we (the United States) consider the US President the "leader of the free world."  This has nothing to do with the current individual holding the office, but rather the sentiment behind a statement in which a supposedly democratically elected person is the leader of all free people.  I know it is a rather generalized statement, however has anyone considered that rather than the elected official being considered the leader of the free world, perhaps it is the constituents that ought to be considered the collective leader(s) of the free world?

With this thought in mind, I assert that the constituents in mind would be not only those of the United States of America, but all voting eligible people throughout the world.  After all, democracy is meant to be for the people and by the people, is it not?  I understand that the US is seen as the great democratic experiment, but it is not even the largest democratic nation.  I also grant that the United States exercises a profound amount of influence on the geopolitical stage, however how often do we consider why this is?  Is it because it is the present empire at the peak, the proverbial puppet master at this time in human history?

Who is to say that in 50 years time the president of China or its people won't be considered the new "leader of the free world"?  I recognize that the previous statement may hold a lot of weight for many people for numerous reasons.  To consider the leader of a Communist (or Socialist really) nation a leader of the free world may be big stretch for some when considering countless crimes against humanity the Chinese government is likely guilty of.  However, can't the same be said of the United States?  The US has climbed has not climbed the power ladder like an innocent child on the slide down at the local park.

Just some thoughts I had to release tonight as the new normal is baking behind the scenes, in the public eye, and quarantined with its family for who knows how many more days.