Voices from the past. Moans of pain, contemplation and endless laughter. The over-use of the word "gay":
I read the blog last night.
It had been some time since I paid it a visit. Each time I would read a couple entries, laugh a little at how silly we were and lament the fact that the years of 100+ posts were gone.
This time I felt different. This time, my heart wrenched as I scrolled through the years, past dick jokes and long drawn out sentences meant to confuse for simple friendly delight. My heart wrenched because it felt no equal here. This blog is no longer a mirror, it's a photograph. And the people in it almost unrecognizable. The authors of theses stories are ripe fruit hanging over a lifetime. Swaying joyfully, soaking in the sun with there brothers.
That fruit fell and the harsh sun above drank it's juices and the ground below ate it's soft skins. A winter fell over the bodies and covered the remains with a blanket cold and real.
And when the rains dragged away the brush and the warm wind returned, what emerged was a sapling. Still young, looking up to the same heights it once swung only now with morbid trepidation. With the deep earthly knowledge that this will be my final form. From here till forever some version of this brain, these beliefs and this heart, ever growing heavy, will be life.
I cannot long for my former self, I think I've grown too old for such cheap tricks. And I do not envy the pain I felt five years ago. But with outstretched arms towards the constant Eastern winds of time I feel the all too sober conclusion, that one me has long past and before this life is through so shall another.
I read the blog last night.
It had been some time since I paid it a visit. Each time I would read a couple entries, laugh a little at how silly we were and lament the fact that the years of 100+ posts were gone.
This time I felt different. This time, my heart wrenched as I scrolled through the years, past dick jokes and long drawn out sentences meant to confuse for simple friendly delight. My heart wrenched because it felt no equal here. This blog is no longer a mirror, it's a photograph. And the people in it almost unrecognizable. The authors of theses stories are ripe fruit hanging over a lifetime. Swaying joyfully, soaking in the sun with there brothers.
That fruit fell and the harsh sun above drank it's juices and the ground below ate it's soft skins. A winter fell over the bodies and covered the remains with a blanket cold and real.
And when the rains dragged away the brush and the warm wind returned, what emerged was a sapling. Still young, looking up to the same heights it once swung only now with morbid trepidation. With the deep earthly knowledge that this will be my final form. From here till forever some version of this brain, these beliefs and this heart, ever growing heavy, will be life.
I cannot long for my former self, I think I've grown too old for such cheap tricks. And I do not envy the pain I felt five years ago. But with outstretched arms towards the constant Eastern winds of time I feel the all too sober conclusion, that one me has long past and before this life is through so shall another.
I wrote a response but it was too long for the comment field so hold up
ReplyDelete