Month: July 2022

Having wound their way carefully, yet with haste, they found a spot along the bridge’s sidewalk railway with the rest of the crowding onlookers to view the fireworks clearly displayed overhead.

No pictures were taken of the main event’s light explosions, just the warm memory of them cuddling in comfort together now imprinted, and recognition of their having achieved a next stage of freedom.

Fourties had been “fine” – except that they were about struggling to get back what I’d built through my thirties that was lost, and watching it all slip from my grasp despite valiant efforts. The conveyor belt of life kept whooshing me forward into new dramas and incidences adding to the historical documents our current timeline will record.

Having made it this far, I was suddenly thrust into the ages of fifty and just beyond, whereupon I have been told by society that all of my validity as a human being no longer matters nor counts. I have been told that I should start planning for retirement, for any warranty should now be cashed in – and in fact, check the fine print: all promises have been rendered null and void.

No wonder my muscles lock up. No wonder my tissues swell. No wonder I feel as if I am in hell. There’s no longer any operant premise easily available that excites my life’s continued participation.

It shouldn’t really matter to me by now what society thinks. After all, I have always walked my own path in my own way, careful to not dance too close to such irrational dictates. The problem is, I’m having a hard time finding other people who think like I do – people who want to push back and challenge “the accepted norms” and prove that youth’s vitality doesn’t have to end after you’ve lived half of a century.

In fact, I am just now beginning to get a new grip on understanding life’s purpose. We each have a responsibility to share the truths that having accumulated years comes to prove are most important. We are supposed to hail each other and join together to reinforce efforts toward more sustainable strategies.

That’s it, that’s all there is. I have lived long enough to where I can now justify my positions. Ageism is just another way for society to avoid evolving its own maturity.

They wanted her to plan for her “bucket list.” Give up and give out remnants.

But, she wanted so much more than they would qualify her for, so she fought the brainwashing.

Around her, society marched to established rhythms. Those with intact families got to keep them, while those who came from wreckage walked through the rubble.

This wasn’t what she was born for – to just keep innovating for mere survival.

Yet, for now, she recognized that all she could do was hold her ground.

Being denied easy thumb-access to her phone’s writing pad prompted her to try writing by hand for the first time in a while by pen and paper. In doing so, she began accessing associations normally bypassed.

Why did speaking God’s name in Arabic actually seem to work for her?

As an experiment, she had tried saying “Jesus” and came to have a stream of conscious conversation with him as a prophet healer, rather than the “Son of God” everyone insisted on now calling him. She realized that he could be her “patron saint” if she considered it long enough, and thought that if the man she was interested in marrying wanted her to join him in this faith, she did not feel that she would have much internal conflict over it.

God is God is God in whatever language, nationality, and version a person could choose to worship in. Except perhaps such versions as Satan and the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the term “God” encapsulates many of the same meanings that can be shared around the world.

The reason the Arabic term for God worked for her is that she was removed from that culture’s indoctrinations. Having previously been force-fed poisonous aberrations twisting the purity of “The God Christ,” she now had found a version of God that to her current perceptions felt pure and uncorrupted.

Take out the religion and focus on the meaning: like her, God evolved.

She did not necessarily desire fame’s acclaim nor fortune’s bounty.
She wanted the man who inspired her to start her life over again.

For with him, their love would not end –
She could see it in his every movement.

Every breath he took strove with grace for further self improvement.
Every glance he shared of wit or correction gave clemency of solace.

He was the perfect canvas for her projections –
Yet, delivered more than wildest expectations.

He was magic forging manifesting reality:
His essence was a dreamer’s dreaming.

(Title play on words.)

It gave its last circuit charges to warding off the imminent corrosion imposed by inadvertent flooding of its battery when the shower’s deluge bypassed barriers.

He had wanted someone just like him in physicality, mentality, and lack of emotionalism. As long as he could maintain the upper hand and feel stoically superior, all was well.

Bumping, squeaking, creaking floors – conversations permeate from ceiling. High vocal tones mix with low response distractions. Repetitive, intermittent shoe clomps, furniture scuffs, and heavy draggings disrupt sleep’s comfort. Another family’s interactions penetrate bones. Solitude’s healing embrace is stolen from our home.

Adults always lied. They only told the truth if they wanted something from you – and went right back to lying, once they got it from you.

She would be different…even if she was the first.