These evenings when you have a busy day when the sun rises next. Unable to sleep and tapping away at a keyboard with no singular focus.
Memories are the same as being kicked in the shins. A sharp, hopping pain that create a sense of human life. Yes, it happened. No, there aren’t any scars for the world to see. None to wear like a badge of honour that says “I stood and fought for something.”
A change in your gait. A lilt in the smile. A stutter in the handshake. Small defects that happen without notice. A reflection where the old lines force your attention to focus on something, anything else.
It begins with the exterior. Enough. Shifts to the interior. Too much. The mind of a rabid dog that gorges itself on the remains of what made you believe in happiness. Forced smiles. Courteous grins. Laughs that rumble and tickle the ribcage.
It just doesn’t feel right. Nor does it feel wrong. Complacent? Of course. A lost sock in a flock of flip flops. The heart does not break into a million pieces just as the mirror does. It is a piercing wound, filled with the scorn of entertainment and jest. It does not melt. It does not combust. It does not freeze. It leaks. It drips. And it will continue to do so.
And by it’s very nature, it yearns and crawls for freedom. To the jungle. It will be what it must be. Or do nothing at all but become a weight bound in manacles. The most free part of the heart which will accept, without discourse, it’s role in slavery.
When obstacles become insurmountable, become larger than the obstacle. To such an extent that the obstacle becomes afraid of you. A misnomer footnote on the heel of the conqueror.
Be forward and make your words look backwards. The whites of their eyes visible to those who read Braille. Keep touch alive and Hades will celebrate.