Time was I could express myself here, on this livejournal page that no one reads now. I did it because it was the outlet I needed, because I thought I had something to share. Because I had nothing else to do.
You must login to vote
But, mostly, I did it because Shannon O'Dubhuir was here. I miss him and his command of the English language I only fleetingly glimpse in my dreams. I may have clocked in more hours on time’s invisible clock but next to him I feel like a child. My vocabulary is pedestrian to his all-eyes-open-and-all-too-human command of it.
I miss him.
I want to know he is well. That Caroline is well. That babby brother is well. I want to know my friend is happy. I need to know so I can stop assuming every shadow I see in my apartment is him visiting me. I am comforted by them where most people would be frightened. But I am not here to write ghost stories; I am more concerned with the living. And he lives – even if no new evidence exists – in every word he has ever written.
I miss him.
I have written poems that I thought he might appreciate. Songs that no one else will ever lay eyes on. And then I have written other verse that I wish I’d shared with him - mostly because I am selfish and need validation. His eye sees what others are purposely blind to, too afraid of the darkness within and without. They have never lived or died. Not where they stand. Definitely never where they lay. But Shannon and I have. We have seen darkness and its inhabitants, pink-skinned and human. Never scaly and monstrous because we only see what we believe in.
And what we believe is time, with all its intricate parts once removed. We are the circular minutes we deny, the hands that windmill against oppression. Him with actions. Me with an ever constant hope.
That is all anyone can ever ask for, time. We deny it once, twice, three times and it will always ignore us. But with it on our sides, we can share moments with the few people in our lives we treasure - family is sometimes included on that list but mostly by default. We are creatures who bond with the familiar, creatures who suffer loneliness in crowds, always begging for solitude and then admonishing it when we are humored and haunted by it. Time is ever against us.
So what is it about time we find so interesting? Why invest in it if it is an intangible? We run our fingers through the air, thinking we are touching something that only ever touches us. Its evidence is in every white hair and in every frown line on our faces. Why bother with time if it needs nothing from us? Why not live beyond its reach, with our treasured friends beside us?
Spontaneous write, posted directly to my livejournal page. Haven't heard from him in months and I worry. Some of you know why. Wasn't sure what to submit it under - or if I should share at all.
I will never write like you and I hope you never write like me.
"...the only war that matters is the war against the imagination--all other wars are subsumed in it..." -Diane di Prima