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
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,
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
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
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
A perpetual adolescence,
Childish and we are shamed into
Keeping them hidden as secret
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:
Fucking commiserating for
all that we have lost along
It'd be one of the only things
and these secret tears in
their slow motion tracks.