we speak of freedom as an expected right

we came to the point when the very hinge upon which we valued our society to be rare was the same hinge that now sat broken. closing our eyes and walking forward felt just as stable as having our eyes wide open. nothing could be foretold. what was once comforting, now seemed a distraction.

we have been known to schlep around the idea of freedom as if because it always had been, it always would be.

we closed our eyes as the doors started to close -- and so we came to be at this point where mere conversations about the closed doors are seen as indicative of guilt and ill-intention.

by the time we arrived at this point...
so many of us were so embedded in our expectations and demands that so few of us were left to actually see with clear eyes what was happening.

there were protests and boycotts and pulpits installed in street corners - pulpits that called to be occupied by those with clear eyes.

those whose wings worked yet, begged that the sky not be restricted. those who had long since flown and now made way by foot, argued that the roads be cleared of bristles so they may walk freely.

the artists with history so vividly painted in their minds made their own pulpits. they painted colors and words on any empty space to be found. it was as if people were still aware of what color meant.

the history keepers of my generation will tell two stories - one of victory and one of loss. the latter will never be shared. but it is one of loss of vision. loss of understanding.

unkept history

I need to get these words out of my head. I feel with them is the root of human hope and faith that humanity is equipped with everything it needs to move beyond our misplaced energy towards things and identities. The human spirit can be broken and damn the people who break it. We must uplift and amplify the good in the human spirit.

I sat atop this hill for years now. The branches and bristles biting at my ankles as if they might suffocate me by starting low.

Every day goes by and I imagine what the next will bring. I have seen communities torn apart by sheer incompetence and stubbornness. The leadership here is hollow. Dig. Dig. Dig. And all is hollow.

The histories of whys are unkept - why the gibbous? why the bruised? why the people on leashes? why the proud and the humble? Damn us all if we cannot learn to understand and create room in our memories for the answers.

- - - - - - -

The sisters in the padded room whisper of a cabinet in the middle of the forest where history is stored. A cabinet sits with millions of drawers dusty with age. The birds with red ink on their chest keep these drawers full, they say.

But no one cares of their contents, one passerby said. The sisters are crazy to believe people care for the contents of the cabinets.

- - - - - - -

Damn me if these words don't make it onto pages with lasting ink to share their message.



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this is fodder for the beginnings of the bird boy book. thoughts are welcome.