Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually focusing entirely on the wrong thing. I wonder if the reason behind my failures and my agonies and my trials and injustices, are not- as I’ve supposed- the result of some critically sharp tongued cosmic irony, or the right twist, click, and turn of rubiks knowledge hitherto undiscovered-
but simply me.
I wonder if I am not the burglar in the night, pilfering my five bedroom home of its rare treats and valuables. Because, surely, what other answer is there? To be quite smart, yet never quite smart enough. To be exceptionally keen, yet habitually blind sided. To stun with formidable powers of discernment, yet cyclically caught in a perpetual muddle. Perhaps the problem is not so far out there as I’ve previously assumed. Perhaps the primary issue is not incomparably large, not a black hole of fathom beyond fathoms.
perhaps it is small.
and perhaps it is inside me.
perhaps it is small.
perhaps it is me.
perhaps i am the small thing i’ve never perceived.
What is it that I focus on? Only the most noble of tasks, the most human of aspirations, the most emotional of desires.
When I dream, I do not dream as other geniuses and world changers do. I do not obsess over my skills and gifts; my mind swims fairly shallow with aerial maneuver and finesse required to jimmy the lock on success. On wealth. On global improvement. On the supernatural explosion of human empathy. No, no, you see- men much better than I fantasize about these things. They chart them out, endless plotting defining their paradigms, counting the last star into alignment before laying siege to the construction of their constellation.
I just assume all of that.
“Ah!” I say. “I’m brilliant! I’m good at what I do! That stuff will all work itself out.”
Whether I am dismissive because I believe in myself, or because I am afraid to discover what I am if I don’t believe in myself, I cannot tell you. I do not know. Because just as quickly as I begin to muse on the charred chinks in my armor, my mind raises up like a pack of balloons beating a hasty retreat from a family picnic during the holidays. It takes me into the ether of the clouds, the dominion of birds and angels, it propels me to heights further than height itself. Up here, there is no down there. The light blurs the horizon line into a burning stripe, like an Archangel’s halo broken out of its circle into an equator divine.
up here i can only see light.
up here, I can’t even see.
there are no images- only light.
and in the light is the true dream.
I feel my family.
The warm love of my wife. She, who I spent a lifetime to find, who I despaired of ever discovering, who called my name back from the brink of nothing. She- who I would die for without question, but who I would rather live a thousand lives for between the exhales of every second. I feel her. Her smile, the way she laughs when I’m upset and she’s teasing me. The heat of her breath on my cheek, when my family is struck, and the tears are released into the sacred space of her femininity as an instrument of my healing.
I feel this powerful woman who I ascribe worship to with honor, and sacrifice, and faithfulness, and loveliness. This Queen before whom I do not hesitate in vulnerability. This immaculate being, all the more human for her divinity, who I never have to question whether or not she can see me, for the core of her heart is a mirror; even as I clearly see it, I know I am clearly seen.
The friend who sticks closer than a brother.
I feel her.
I know her.
She’s more than familiar.
She’s a part of me…
somehow I’ve always known this.
And with a screech, a shout, and a bang, I feel the essence of such as only she and I could have made. Chills down my spine as if lightning itself turned to liquid in awe of these Titans. Men and Women to be, boys and girls in formation, infants in my arms now. These are my children. Our children. I feel them. I feel the memories we’ve made wading through the deep. The warrior clan we formed, battling against the streets. The poetry we penned, as if by a single hand, master alchemists over differences, pain, and fear, turning it to ink.
Avatar bending endlessly earthen energy into the one word phrase that equitably cherishes everything-
And like Mufasa whispers by hyenas, it still makes me shudder…
Isn’t it funny how a simple blink transforms the light into darkness?
I have not succeeded in my gifts.
I have not changed the world with my mission.
My assumptions have left me just as decrepit and struggling as any other dreamer.
But perhaps the gifts and the mission have never been the problem.
Perhaps I need to get my head out of the clouds.
and dream about something i can actually accomplish.
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