Sometimes I write poems, or short story fragments. Sometimes it makes it into the public world but more often than not it stays tucked away. I wrote two things this weekend that I’ll leave here. Mostly reflections of things and times and people gone by long, long ago. It’s cathartic to remember. It’s empowering to share. It reminds me of my strength and my craft.
“I don’t want to be these people,” I told you long ago. Your baffled expression and stitched eyebrows told me you didn’t understand. “These people: who hurt each other, and themselves. Who hang on for dear life but don’t do the work. Who claw and claw and claw to stay afloat, only to find the air on the surface is just as suffocating. Who love but don’t understand how to make that enough. Who yell and fight and ignore the ragged edges as if it can all be solved with a coy eye and a morsel of skin. These people we’ve become, I don’t want us to be them. I want us to be ourselves, free from the pain and suffering. Free from each other. Free to find what God is really calling us to. Because this vicious cycle we’ve maintained can’t be all there is.”
It used to be you. Best friends. Late night calls. Silly inside jokes. And quite serious talks. I used to have your birthday memories and you’d do anything to make me laugh. I don’t miss it. I don’t miss you. But it makes me think about how simple life was back then. How naive we were without even knowing it. How much we had in front of us. And how much we’ve each grown. I wouldn’t change a minute, Benj. Not. One. Thing.