In the fool’s folly of new beginnings we stumble often. Frustration, the bitter knife edge of insignificant roadblocks, plague even the smallest thoughts, which lead to second guesses and all manner of self-inflicted criticism. And I, warm in the hollows of new ground, can’t escape the drums of deep caverns and barbed voices. To this end, I fight within myself to balance entrenched stigmas of cycles that no longer serve any purpose. The mother, the wife, the sister, the friend, the enemy, the angel, the demon, the… veil of a person with no identity.
All the while, the sacred devotion of each step leads down familiar paths with different faces. Though none I’ve truly known or sought to devote the slightest energy towards. But life does not wait for us to catch up or hold on, so we run to make time. Run from lessons we’re too afraid to face, run because we’re not strong enough to move anywhere except backwards–a fate destined to break anything worthy of our time in the now.
We break and shatter and blame everyone, save ourselves. We’re tired and weak and fragile because longevity has a particularly cruel way of wearing spirit to the bone. Shells outside, rattling within, we rail against pattern and consistency and the routines of life to find adventure in unpredictable schedules of chaos. Chaos of the broken and those who fight invisible ghosts to insure they never become part of the society that formed them. Nothing, short of death, could be imagined in their sight for such a fate.
As if doing the work turns into the label that becomes the thing they hate most.
Wash dishes, do laundry, go to work, raise kids, pay the bills. Cycles of normal. Cycles of life. Cycles of extraordinary events most people turn into boredom. Because normal is boring.
Subtle ways of destroying simple pleasures for fame, for money, for following dreams by sacrificing everything important. As if we don’t have enough time, as if tomorrow our dreams will disappear if we don’t act now, but they don’t, not ever. Even with family, even with jobs and bills and laundry, those dreams never disappear, and their presence or passion never fade in the delay of the everyday existence of life.
Yet the race is present always, the push to start now thrums through the voices of our surround and up turrets to rattle in wrinkled mushy synapses. Fire one, get it done now. Fire two, you’re missing out. Fire three, you’ll never become anything because tomorrow doesn’t exist, and you’re time is too short to delay.
To the orchestra I nod, understanding their rush and push of encouragement roots in fear of never becoming the one thing that will pull them from obscurity. But here in my keep, the drums are replaced with laughter, warm soapy water, and the whirl of a vacuum. My words steadily build and form and wait, knowing one day their song will catch the edge of white for a world still running from itself.
Because time waits for all men and the act of living is one of the noblest endeavors any fool could hope to pursue.