Am I the sheep or the wolf? I am poet, storyteller, designer, and tech-hybrid investor. - I sat atop a hill and I saw myself in my father and in my son — three generations, Black and delicate, yet hardened and softened by life and the circumstances therein. My son screams “I did it”; I scream “I want to say I did it like him, my dear son”; my father screams, “I am ashamed; I understand not — they have left me all alone after all I have done — my love, my son, has left me.” Pain is mysterious. It flies about like a gentle leaf detaching from the stem of an oak or the cypress tree. Memories are like pillars with tiny cracks in the foundation — you have a certain amount of time to fix them — to heal them — before the whole temple crumbles. Love is like a whisper — you have to trust the delivery and never shy away from the air as it seeps from the lips and off the tongue of love’s embodiment in flesh and bones and in the soul of the one who whispers. I feel by day. I am angry in the night. I face the pain of this world — all of my hopelessness — in my dreams so that when I awake, I can fight for another moment of the reality that hope and love and grace and innocence and joy is real for me; and it is the string that keeps my heart together. If it were not for my nights, for the darkness and the shadows and the tossing and the turning in my bed, I know not where I would be. I am a simple man. I want to love and I want to be loved and I want to become love. I want to understand the mysteries of the universe, deeply. I want freedom that is simple, kind, and true. I want to work on things that make me cry because that means that I can feel the depths of my work at the core of my very being and that is living. I want my son to run into the wind and for the wind to know his power. I want to scream “I did it” like my son, and I will, I shall; it will be. I want my father to know the boundless love of forgiveness so that his temple is restored on Earth and not in the heavens. I sit atop a hill with an oak in one hand and a cypress tree in another hand. The leaves have fallen and they surround me like clouds of goodness. The wind pushed through me and the temple stood. We are together — three generations, in either direction — young, middle aged, and senior. We are together.
Invited by: 🆑 Chris Lyons
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|August 27, 2021||1,261||+34||+2.8%|