Horst Faas - AP
My eyes bleed from an uncertain war that spills out across the TV screens of my youth. From across lush green jungles members of my family were there. While the grownups around me were not shy to display their pride. I witnessed the protest spilling out across the streets and even at my school. A country angry and drifting apart, all in the name of peace or hate. It’s funny how images from 50 years ago bleed across my eyes even today. But when seeds of pain are planted they’re usually planted early and deep.
Deep into another sleepless night, I crawl from my safe cocoon. Devilishly disgusted as silence I can’t get comfortable even under the faded glow of the smartphone screen. Too many devils haunt my memories exerting just enough pressure to fire the triggers in my head. Words offer some comfort, so too the mindful meditations of a less than all mighty. Growing up in a dance of vulnerability and stoic grace. Our fathers showed no mercy except for brief moments under oil-soaked light. While mother’s with so much to do, parading out of one age into another, from one fabricated dream into another.
This left me standing with guides as varied as the seasons. Jaded to the point of cynical larceny. Forced into burying my feelings and swallowing even deeper set anger. I imitated those around me with such grace and precision. So as the clock strikes three, my body much weaker than my mind. I grow tired of all the noise of eternal optimism now crushed like a grape. I try to comfort myself once again with the strength of others. Drawing deep from the deep well of a distant ember, that always reminds me. I am not alone.
Deep into another sleepless night, I crawl from my safe cocoon. Devilishly disgusted as silence I can’t get comfortable even under the faded glow of the smartphone screen. Too many devils haunt my memories exerting just enough pressure to fire the triggers in my head. Words offer some comfort, so too the mindful meditations of a less than all mighty. Growing up in a dance of vulnerability and stoic grace. Our fathers showed no mercy except for brief moments under oil-soaked light. While mother’s with so much to do, parading out of one age into another, from one fabricated dream into another.
This left me standing with guides as varied as the seasons. Jaded to the point of cynical larceny. Forced into burying my feelings and swallowing even deeper set anger. I imitated those around me with such grace and precision. So as the clock strikes three, my body much weaker than my mind. I grow tired of all the noise of eternal optimism now crushed like a grape. I try to comfort myself once again with the strength of others. Drawing deep from the deep well of a distant ember, that always reminds me. I am not alone.
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