We have it still–we keep it in a box.
But beyond the box, does there lie any point?
For we are born, happy bouncy bright babies, infant in fabulous fantasy. We toddle through, kidding and laughing, children we caper, dancing in the delight of day, knowing not night or nothing. Then off we go to a garden kinder than the veggies we despise. And we learn but also daydreaming yearn for the simpler days that simply swayed when we played free and frivolent. But it is not all bad, we don’t need to be mad, we actually can be glad, for the stickers are stars for success, naptime and oh glorious recess where we can run and play at least for an hour a day before we crack into our lunchables, oh quite fun, and then we continue school and learn quite some, our letters, our a-b-c’s, our numbers, our 1,2 3’s, we love school, oh so we do. We did. Then taking steps first, walking a grade, our hearts ever so flutter, we are slightly dismayed, for now not only do we do letters at school, they also seem to follow us home too, where work was warded away, it now is with us all the day and some of the night too as worksheets lightly accrue.
But we get stickers, and are known as best in the class for having bested, having conquereth, having known the maths, facing that adversary addition with subtraction his sorcerer, staring down that demon division and the multiplication monster. Ah sigh the years do fly, for cursives rain heavy written slick and soon oh so very quick, we find ourselves emigrating on a rotation, for our homeroom is but a station, in our mission of education, we circulate through the school on bell set periods. Between we teem, age we become, and as years do run, we speed to, until through we find ourselves and peer amidst a medias res amiss, a youthful spring with all its fortune hits, and we notice the other side, which though always different from us, now less differ not of us, so begins the circling towards play, looking a glance all the day, wanting, wishing, hoping, seething, our lives the symphony for hormonic harmonies to be played and strewn through.
But then poetry sighs, turning towards to fade, as prose amplifies and begins to compose itself, as we find ourselves back on the bottom. Welcome to the ninth circle, held in this dreer, like the seasons, you find yourself in the depths of winter, snowballs like spitballs assail you as you run from class to class in attempts to pass. Yet thick and dense, snow heavy hinders your passage, and you suddenly find that in this new realm, you know nothing. But it is just a season, and like the snow, it melts and fades away, leaving you the choice. To lie there and mope, or to elope and spring away toward possibilities. For you are fresh no longer, seasoned less soft, more soph, the grass shoots rise anew, there are buds on the branches, shrill the songs the birds sing. Now you know everything, more than there is to know–and time, once a fiend, now is your cuddly crustacean conquered. Could such joy never end, could such happiness never fade, could the trees leafy forever green be? Somewhere, some time you may ponder that question but for now, as the sun high brightly glimmers down, you have signs to complete and assignments to remember–or was it the other way around? Ugh, outside it is bright and sunny yet I’m here inside, busy and bleak–what a week, eh, such some somber way life these days tends to sway. But the record replays reminding, it’s for your future, for over that bridge, there is a field, so here in this last altercation, battle hard with all will. Soon, before you can measure, it will end. How swiftly seasons seem to speed beyond us, only yesterday I saw snowflakes falling, now flakes brown descending. I should, I ought, um, maybe–where were those days when we laughed as we played, sung as we worked and slept, resting in the comfort of a life eased? Why so serious, younger ones snicker–they are so fortunate, blissfully unaware of Ragnarok impending, hear, beyond but not far, here a wolf howls–Fenrir now wants more than a hand though it’s Garmr’s teeth that will reclaim the rest of next Tuesday, with its test, papers, and college applications. Yep next Tues, it is due, because I’m going to college, at least I think so, I want to, do I though–Ugh I don’t know anymore but, I keep, I try, and attempt to go on. Just a few more bells, just a few. Then those few last appeals, those youthful bells, they ring out, signaling you are now on to your next step.
Welcome to the next tabula rasa, the space is empty but over the next couple years, you’ll assemble the pieces, the parts, the pictures for the collage you’re making. You will, right? Rite, just do it, you’re new here and everyone one before you has, it’s tradition, and those ruts through the long gone dead and dying years are deep chasms now. You really think you’re just going to Peter Pan leap, jump, and fly away. Ha, never, never man–you lost, boy? They ask, for they see you staring around. Yep, definitely there is a frosh, they really know nothing yet don’t those two first one fly fast, as you run, praying hoping to catch up, ahead. But barely above, the water for sure, you say. Climbing up onto the shores sandy, gravel clinging muddily to your limbs, you realize you are not fresh anymore. Such grit shows you to be more than soph–such wisdom a year to you can cling, so all see wonder to ponder–there is the one is who knows all, so all to you call, the newly come and initiated, the tourist erring wondering lost, the junior jumbled and gaunt, all seek thee for the knowledge unknown or information uninteracted with. For now, you stand at centers, string thin ubiquity streaming from you, tightly held within your grasp–even if it moves on the periphery, you will perceive it, this world, this land is your dormain, and you make sure all know you rule it. But time passes, swifter than your comprehension, and though you were shore on land, you’re swimming again and drowning momentarily, treading the struggle tired, uhh when does this trend towards end, ever? They say youth heals all needs as time fulfills all wounds–wait, was that what it was? I don’t know, I don’t know, at this juncture, idk, is all and everything you can muster, as it is conjunction that holds your vast and fleeing parts, somewhat, partially togethe–ah, who am I kidding, this is BS, all is BS and we all make it all up, just to tread, just above the waves ensuing, the papers vulturing above, the essay sharking, stark to stake out what will soon be left of us. If only, and only if, someone, somehow, something could reach down and–but idk, idk, I can’t believe this could ever end–now. But then flowing saged stubble, humble at first but luxurious arises. All around they chant mow your lawn, you look like you are from the street, stuck straight in desperate, but these fibers thing and haggard, are the proof, the locks of your soon to be victory. For seniored, such a status is the seat within which you sit, and you are now enjoying the view. Yes, getting here may have been miserable, but like shipwretched, now that you are kissing land, you understand, and they, the rest stand under, as this now is your moment.
Yet ephemeral, you barely kiss it, fly swift, you barely miss it until, gown a flowing, your face a glowing, your tears–the wind a blowing, you walk your final stride and, and, and polysyndeton lost, you wonder if you could go back, to return you yearn, but reunions are simply just drunk regressions that hangover in the mourning, reminding you the bird has flown, and will never look back. Eurydice is dead, and write a song about it, but you can only charm Hades once to chill with the shades on fleek–you back in the real world, no more euphemisms–this is your fate. But it is not all that bad, write, rite, right?! I can find more stickers here, and stars, there have to be more stars, so you hold on and you start running, through the mazes in search of cheese. But watch with care, for cats be luring around every corner, willing to sell you something to buy you all. But, you say to yourself, if I run fast enough, like Pegasus I’ll sprout somethings, and escape this crate of a crete, watch and learn, Minos, I got brains, I’ll best you and become boss. But child Icarus, Phaeton high burning bright, though you dream vividly in the coldness of darkness night, warming yourself by the held heath of fired desires–the sun, watch on time, it rises, and will scorch you back down. But we still try, and strive to outpace the rat race, but wishing hoarse to be a stylin steed, yet such thoughts, neigh, do not change your bray–you’re still carting your burdens, mule. But I am getting a whole book of stickers, cynic, you’re just jealous that I’m special with the stars, see look hear, yeah up here at my chest, see I got that bright one–that’s for my job, that big circular one–that was for my wedding, and that one, my favorite, yeah the big one rectangle, that is for my place, yep, my place, my pad, thy be looking kind of thin on your assemblage, where are your pieces of flair–ain’t got flair, you’re not quite there, you know, that what they say. Do they though?–I wonder.
Yet when we began, bright, bounding, and beaming, was it for flair that we kept up the pace and had a wide smile plastered broadly across the face? Wasn’t it for something simpler than all this? Wasn’t it for–What was it for? Through all these years, striving through all these severes, crying through all these tears, what was it for? There will be some around who will say–it was for us, you did it in our stead, and looking around you’ll see your friends and family, smiling and nodding but while, yes they do keep us going often than not, one day they may not be–then what? Even now fainter their presence may appear, so what do you have to hold against the fear, that all you do and have done, the skirmishes faced and battles unwon, all your triumphs and failures achieved, from all this united host, what sustain you barely beyond the ghost? No piece of flair, however fair, could ever care, enough to hold you when you fall, would ever care to embrace you up when you are feeling small, should ever tare and stay to make sure as the dawn arises, you as well, awake swell in good stead, instead of your last arrangement being made from behind foggy eyes. But, but my trophies, my glory weighs heavy on my chest, their metallic allure catching brightly the sun, and you say it was all for naught?! Who-who-who do you think you are–Who—Ssshh, think and listen to your heart. You quite well know who I am–for we have had this conversation before, yet you failed to listen–there were too many things in the way, blocking your clear view. Yet now tragedy hard and fast has struck, for vultures wheeling compose circular strafes above your corpse soon to be, and crows cackling caw at such a fate fallen on you. Before you breathe what remains to past, here, and listen well, and remember, see who I am. For I am your assurance of devaluation, ha haha ha–all and everyone thinks they are a prodigy, they will dodge every would’ve, could’ve and should’ve shooting their way. Yet, hear, am I standing and you are the one who lays on the floor, with a pool forming, the ocean of disaster you will drown in. Once bubbly and young, you thought you would fly over any tsunami, float over the tremors of any earthquake, dodge the lightning thundering and reign of clouds hailing below–yet now what a sad sight you lie there now, barely a truth holding on, soon a fiction to be barely remembered. When you were young . . . . . . .
For a moment,
the taunts fade, for a second and you remember when you were young, and all the dreams, wishes and desires you held, you held, where were these things contained?
. . .
Ah, not yet, for I have you still, and there is yet fun for me to have. Up above you, see the shadows encircling, soon they will feast at the delight of your destruction, in the celebration of your defeat.For, yes, this all ends, hear, remember and understand, you are nothing, your hands empty, your heart losing its grip on your life’s flow, you hold nothing in the end–though the spirit tends towards hope, the body deemed defeated, drags down all to dust
. . . . .
The words, those words, a word toward, afterword, what word did he say? It was something that I had had, held, contained. There was a box, did I still have it, after all these years? In this world, I had moved so much, that maybe I had lost it–yet, something, so methinks, a possibility, a chance, a desire, a way forward, a held opportunity possibly expected–
No, listen to me, while you breathe, you’ll mope, so in this homely hut small , let it all end, do not consider the questions antagonizing, at arm’s length, lies a lance, let all be not–
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
No, to be is not to not be, as such I stay for a moment longer, yes this world dreary dreadful can drag but yet, all those years ago, in a time before, when poetry rhymed, and such did lines soar, I had a box, and within I did keep, such a wonderful object golden, greater worth than any metal heap, it was called hope, the first and the last of its kind, it represent a life held, liberty granted, for a pursuit, whole in this part, of things higher and above. But I got distracted, for I was young, and shinier things around did gleam, so to and towards them did my steps turn and my life seem. But I was not left, for I have the box still, for it is in my chest, though not opened as oft it should, it bears its contents, thus is filled. So to you, you assurance of devaluation, I, here, you there, for there you will stay. Yes, you may deem me not a prodigy, cover with dust all my success, send to the grave any glory I may have attained. But this hope, hear, I hold and will keep in my chest, because it is not yours to take, for it was not by you given. For one Who made and gave it, keeps it within me still.
I have it still–I have kept it in a box. But beyond the box, lies its point, so opening my chest, I will let its ardor, shine and be.
You will see it, I hope.