Plague Journal Excerpt #1

The past is whatever you make of it. 

That's the only way it can ever be framed:

 in the periphery of the mind's eye,

casting cautious glances into the 

rearview as it grows smaller 

And smaller along the fading horizon.

You see it in that halo glow that's cast

along the edges of everything which

Lays in the path of the sun as it sets.

For a second you almost forget all 

About the undercurrent of anxiety

Which ran through everything like

A thin, frayed wire receiving too much

electricity,

That edginess---

That unease which comes with

Being caught somewhere between 

Childhood and all its simplicity,

And adulthood and the weight of its

Expectation and responsibility--

Hormones scorching your veins from 

The inside and all the awkwardness,

insecurity and universal/emotional

imbalance that comes with it.

You have to remember it all,

Though,

As an artist you are a seeker 

Of all hidden truths,

your own included,

So it becomes a place 

You revisit often as you

Try to get at something 

beyond mere hindsight.

In the end it all boils down

To this:

Your youth was where everything

Was still happening in something

approaching real time,

Everyday -every hour-every minute

Was its own kind of rebirth.

Now, here you are almost 

Forty and feeling like every thing

is dead or close to it.

Adulthood is nothing but

A near constant standstill,

So you look backward every

Chance that you get,

Even if all it serves to do

Is to trigger your anxiety,

depression, mania, madness,

etc etc etc--- 

"Your present needs you,

Your past doesn't,"

You break this rule 

More everyday,

Especially times like now

Where everything seems

At a halt,

I can't stop myself from

Doing it even if the consequences

Are always the same.

I can't look away from that 

Time and place where the

Whole fucking world was 

Still ahead of us,

When we had dreams which

Made us interesting and passionate

In other's eyes.

Now, these same dreams are seen

As sad,

A perpetual adolescence,

Childish and we are shamed into

Keeping them hidden as secret

Hobbies.

How could you not look back

Through these Covid tinted eyes

And miss everything and everyone

So fucking much?

Oh, to simply be in the presence

Of friends right now:

Talking music,

Talking shit,

Swapping stories,

Poems,

Songs,

Fucking commiserating for 

all that we have lost along 

The way,

It'd be one of the only things

To make you feel remotely better,

and  these secret tears in

their slow motion tracks.