this time around

May I write this?

....with layers of progression I find the words. Not many, but enough...for now.


To walk with purpose, with healing.
To hold something you've always wanted.
To play the notes that made you whole.
To hear the rain fall and know...

You can be anyone, but I would rather it be you.

rel·e·vance

Pronunciation: \ˈre-lə-vən(t)s\

Function: noun

Date: 1733

1 a : relation to the matter at hand b : practical and especially social applicability : pertinence
2 : the ability (as of an information retrieval system) to retrieve material that satisfies the needs of the user

So I've been sitting on this word for the last couple days and although the definition is concise I don't feel that it addresses the "heart" of it...

Shuttered light strobes through the fence across my face as I walk my city in the early hours. It's so still I can hear the buzzing of the traffic lights as they trade off. Sleep wasn't an option as rolling over started to feel like some sort of routine. Ok, so here I am with my thoughts and the quiet night sky, now what? I have the same sentiments during the day much less the bleak hours of the night, so will my lowered state of awareness bring me to new conclusions?

Marketing on a shop window brings me back from my daze. Where is everyone at when they read these ad slogans everyday? Does one soul feel any closer to self identification from these cheap imitations of what a life "should" look like? I have serious doubts toward that claim. But apparently if the right person is drinking or wearing it you will potentially have a shot at the same lifestyle. The problem isn't with the paid representative of said product but with our hopes to walk away from what we have for a life. As the storyline always plays through that song you feel as if were written just for you or that movie where you see yourself on the screen and the outcome you've always dreamed of. This message that resonates so close to you is simply relaying that you are in fact alive and in search of that place or idea to belong to.

No one shares these streets this late yet I wait for the crosswalk lights permission to proceed. Walking with shortened strides, infected thoughts of "What can I even do with my life at this point?" slow me down. My life is obviously different from yours but what threads do we share? Where do we reach to find our solace? And how long will that sanctuary of escape last this time? What could initiate the relevance of perspective for you and I?

Rebuttals start up from authors antiquity as I turn the corner to my apartment. One-liners and stanzas start surfacing to a moment I accommodate in the least but my heart beats out the logic to stop me in my tracks. I am as motionless as my surrounding at this hour yet my body feels as if it's in flight. Between Milton's "misplaced" Paradise, Eliot's Wasteland or Shelly and his interpretation of love I see the tie between who we allow to label us in our own lives and what we speak out on others is dire. Choice to receive the titles cast upon us is none but our own. Your relevance is limited to how deep you are willing to reach inside yourself. So I choose to walk with a renewed purpose to see myself past the projected expectations and invite you to do the same...but after you've had your morning coffee.

What is it of beauty that soothes a peace in our breath? The simple symmetry of a tree lined country road that feeds a sense of balance or the strength of a red faced canyon who's rocky depths deal protection or the inviting curves of a woman that places the mind at ease. These are but a few elements that spur an ongoing search of the connection between sight and soul. The crux of this is what do we offer in return for this transcendent display...

Concious Sleep

Don't care who's listening
Don't care who hears
You're my wasted time
You're wasted years

I cant say
And I cant scream
But to breakaway
I'm starting to see

And as I walk away
From what remains
You sit in your spite
And your dark campaign

Oh why oh why
Did I even try
Now when I breathe
I exhale life

Days at a time
The weeks are behind
Years follow suit
And the fight grows inside

The night sky falls
And shadow hides
Our dreams march on
As secret whispers lie

My destiny mapped
By sky punched lights
The same ever glow
That inspired Eliot to write

So adieu to you
My adversary consumed
This volition moves on
Apathy you're through.

de·liv·er·ance n.

1. The act of delivering or the condition of being delivered.

2. Rescue from bondage or danger.

3. A publicly expressed opinion or judgment, such as the verdict of a jury.

So there it is. The definition of what I exhale every time I breathe. It's been a while since I've felt this way, well I actually don't think I've ever felt this way. Through authors experience, melody of artists heart and brushstroke to visionaries canvas...I am undone, but free. The unyielding power of choice is something I have discussed recently and am still in awe of. What great potential we have once we believe in where we are going. This shift in thought has brought about a great deliverance in what I understand of this life.

Overwhelming, the options. In this freedom there is so much life to be lived, Chords to be played, Friends to laugh with and Coffee to drink. An evolution in me from protective pessimism to some innate blend of realism and optimism which makes me look at the state I'm in and whats around me to feel a new sense of hope.

Covered in shadow as you darken my door

Jaded by damp souls who feel no more

An inevitable crossing of these lines pass

Pretense wrought wound as lies are cast.