written live on october 18, 2021

I gaze, listlessly, at this collection of framed pictures and souvenirs as if I were in someone else’s house.  Displays of pride, love, and loyalty- it all looks more like a collection of lives.  Different lives.

They have collected chips and scratches over the past decade or so, some are fading more than others.  I notice how there are more scars today than I remember there to be, having forgotten the recent hardship they faced- thrown from their quiet shelves, falling without a pattern, until they were all scattered about on the floor.  And then I followed suit as I threw myself down as if I were merely an equal, scarred piece among all of this junk.

Flailing my arms around in a panic, failing to swim among them until I couldn’t tread anymore. Exhausted and defeated, I succumbed to drowning in an em-ocean of grateful sorrow.

I knew that these valuable pieces of me were colliding into each other and getting bruised and bullied.  And I felt myself grieving my actions, yet all the while it was as if I were spectating- as if I were the next piece of memorabilia to be added to the collection of lives on these shelves.

I guarded these things, all this evidence, and kept them tightly gripped to my essence the past decade.  It’s the only proof I have that it was me who had lived these lives… one’s so different than the life I know now.

But it’s strange how it feels like my life now has always been- continuous, unchanged – and the one’s of the past were nothing more than interesting collectables of other people’s lives.

One’s so different than mine.

And even looking upon these past lives, I find it ever more difficult to remember, to relate, to believe that they really are… all my own.

They are all dying, like me.  These souvenirs of mine age and grow old, they get blurry, brittle.  The letters wash away from these pictures, the ones that make up a thousand words.  And when there are no more words, they die.  There will be no one to recall a description, or to embody it’s expression.  They are to become mummified objects of time. Artifacts of once claimed pieces of sentiment that mean nothing anymore. They have lost their worth and turned into clutter.

They’ve become skeletons with marked, eroding gravestones of who they once were at face value.  Something quick and factual, and conveyed so simply that it undermines how important each piece truly was, to someone… to me.  Words and phrases disrespectfully concise; perhaps more useful to people that never knew the skeleton that lies beneath.

Passersby can quickly canvas the artifacts of a time that once was.  Distanced from its emotional impressions.  An aggregated pile of cool “things”.

Which is just about how I look upon these “things”, my things, in recent years… estranged.  To be ever freer from its emotional chains and impressions as more years and more lives collect.  I canvas them all, questioning their conveyed truths and quick facts.  It’s hard to recall forgotten words.  It’s hard to see washed out faces.

I’ve been curious as to why this saddens me so.  Perhaps I grieve their youth.  Their once mint, shiny conditions, as they age and decay alongside me-

As if they were all just a collection of mirrors. 

So, I guess I am grieving myself.  Dying more with every forgotten word, with every new scar, alongside the enveloping decay of everything and everyone I have ever known.

I gaze, listlessly, watching them as they lose their sentiment, for which I am the keeper of.  I watch them watch me age and decay.  I see them grieving.

And maybe it’s empathy for all of them, and a bit of shame… they are all dying because of me.


written live on august 17, 2021

In every direction… Death.
What does this mean?  Does this have to mean?
Between questions, I take a breath.

Falling, wondering- is despair just a part of it all…
This is going to hurt.  I know it will, but still,
Sprawling, arms and hands attempt to grasp the wall.

Nothing until something.
A tree where it shouldn’t be, with a little strawberry- how could this be?
Grabbing and holding, gripping the whole thing.

So glad… I could sing.

Here it is and here it was.
Beauty… so vividly… in awe and in love.
Forgetting I was falling, I find myself smiling, just because.

Chills… the good kind.
Joy… heart is lined.
Fear… no longer on my mind.

Before too long, but long enough
I cherish and say goodbye, brimming with love, oh my.
Realizing just then that I had been searching for the wrong stuff.

Letting go I fall slow.
As grateful as can be, my eyes- tearful, but not melancholy.
My whole life lived and I didn’t even know.

Look at this beautiful baby girl.
In love, I’m very. With my little strawberry.
So much so, that as my life begins to fade… I forgot to be afraid.



written live on august 2, 2021

Everyone is dead.

These pictures hanging by a clothes pin along a string in this room- can’t miss them.  I put them there.  I made them visible on purpose. But all it has done is fill me with conflicting joy and despair.  And it’s overwhelming.

Well, not everyone is dead.  Not yet.

Some are closer than others but that’s only an illusion.  Those that seem far from may be closer to than the seemingly predictable ones.  So it seems through the lens of illusion, it is more natural to expect elderly and sick people to be the one’s closer to death than the more youthful, healthy-looking people- even though some in their 20’s, or not yet so, have already died.

I still fall for the illusion- that young people live longer than old people.

I scroll through the contacts on my phone… and I see dead people.  I can’t get myself to delete them. Why?  Is it that hard?  Something inside of me finds meaning in remembering a dead someone, even for a moment, whether they mattered much to me or not.

I do this even though it weighs down my mood, affecting my behavior and decisions.  It beckons depression, which has always been somewhat alluring to me.  These subtle reminders- these subtle kicks to the groin of my emotions- are more likely kicking out my knees making me stumble and fall.


Often I try to remain humble,

              To be fair and true to it all.

Often it makes my stomach churn, and my mind fumble,

              A dead stare, and a momentary stall.

Often my awareness returns, mid-stumble,

              When it is too late… and I fall.



written live on october 28, 2021

I’m too tired for today to mean anything.

Sure, this same day in previous years had met significant events.  Events and experiences that had some sort of imprint on my identity, that mattered enough for me to honor and think about it on the same day each year.

For most days, I’ll feel about it on the same day each year.  Because some have imprinted on my emotions, and it is the day that my emotions remember.

But today… I don’t want today to mean anything.  I’m not missing out if I don’t think, feel, or behave a certain way.  I’m not disrespectful, or disloyal, for looking the other way on how important today was to me once upon a time.

I honestly… what I really mean to say is… I just don’t want to go through the motions, forcing the meaning beyond its natural lifespan- that’s the disrespect. That’s the disloyal.

To wake up without precedent, new and free from the strings of the past.

Each breath, anything can happen- even unblemished joy.  Without a past to judge the present, joy is just joy.  No longer able to be tainted by how I don’t deserve it, or how it will all wither away and die.  Just joy- and wonder- in exploring the new “meanings” that are to be placed, for future Remembrance.

Today, I want it to just be today.  For the first time in years.



Lullabies have me in a trance.  I don’t want to leave.  Sorrowful. Meaningful. Accepting.  I don’t want to leave.

I don’t want to move, as if I’m no longer fighting paralysis.  I don’t want to think beyond mere passivity.  I don’t want to speak… out loud… to no one but myself.

I wonder if surrender has anything to do with serenity.  If it doesn’t, perhaps it should.  Because when I surrender, the feeling has to be called serenity.  It has to.

Ah yes a trance.  Typing with my eyes closed… sometimes feels like driving on a highway, a little vulnerable, a little freeing, a little fluttering as life begins to feel like something surreal.  Lost in a wonderous way, where I might believe I’ll wake up somewhere else any moment.  Where I might believe things are okay.  Where I might believe this has all been something that is not.  To wake up, forgetting the details of the dream… it could be so?

I don’t want to leave this trance.  I don’t want to return to “life”, not just yet, I’m not ready… and that’s okay.  Life doesn’t have to mean anything right now.  Life doesn’t have to have a name anymore, right now.  I don’t have to remember anything, remember myself… and that’s okay.  It’s okay that I’m not okay.  It’s okay that I’m not okay…. At least for right now.

Why does life suddenly seem so noisy…  so bright, too bright.  I need sunglasses, and ear muffs.  I don’t want to leave this trance.  Not right now, that is.

No, not right now.  Soon.  Not now.  Soon.

I could feel this way forever, or it might as well be in this moment.  An infinite serenity where everything is okay.  This could last forever…  or at least until the end of this lullaby.

Then I’ll say goodnight………. And maybe a tear shall fall while my face expresses utter peace.

And then, before it turns into a drop, it’ll be so- the good part of the night.  Yes, it will be so.

It’s okay to say it.  it’s okay if you’re not ready.  It has to be said one of these moments.  It’ll be okay.  It’ll be okay.

Good… night… and it is so.