Tag: stories

On Being

I posted a meme tonight about the essence of life, and what ought matter the most in our society, our world, our planet. The quote wasn’t my own. It appeared a scrawl on the side of a building like graffiti. It might have been photo-shopped but was effective. It spoke of how the planet doesn’t need more successful people, but instead needs more love and peace and healing. I was taken by it enough to believe it mattered.

I thought about it afterward and concluded with that age old question; what defines success in our lives? I think it meant being comfortable with ourselves to give to others rather than being wrapped up in having to prove our worth. Isn’t success simply being satisfied with who we are without measure? I found myself re-evaluating my life and once again treading the terrain of that slippery slope. What is my success story? I concluded it is undefined.

I have always had rough patches to go along with my happier moments. One would argue without the pain there would be less appreciation for the happier measures in our lives.

I have been through a difficult couple of years, times of which I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. So many cathartic miseries that somehow today are beginning to have positive meaning in my life.

So how do we measure success? How do I measure my own? Instead I would like to choose to live my life with the freedoms put before me. I would like to appreciate my life and the world around me.

That is my measure of success.

Always Practical

Was it always this simple

The practical practice

Of knowing one another

So the strengths and weakness

Might somehow balance

 

Were we that naïve in beginnings

A trip to Europe

See the world and imagine life

From a perspective beyond

The normalcy we are taught to hold.

 

I remember the time I came

Down early, the hostel,

One of the last really crowded ones,

I saw him,

Sitting across from you with interest.

 

I’d noticed that look before

A short smile

Guarded yet with an innocence that

Suggested,

Yes this is the way it can be.

 

I wonder about practicality,

Sitting in the sunroom,

A cigarette burns to imagine

Statues as a sort of hip décor,

When inside a human being despaired.

 

I tried to tell you that quiet morning,

When reddened your eyes

Wouldn’t change their hue

We no longer, well I didn’t

We hadn’t been whom we knew.

Empty Spaces – The Road Taken – Photo Challenge

The Road Taken

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And yet there were travelers, all of the eyes,

the minds, the plays, the laughter that contained

an avenue of freedom inside quiet minds, sighs,

while everywhere around a humanity maintained.

 

Where have they all gone, the inspiration, surreal

is the occasional dreamer who steps inside wonder

only toward the stranger that perhaps might feel

questioned, in an accentuated fog of a hereafter.

 

Perhaps if we might contain each story’s beginning

to reach the end, all of the internal warfare being

forgotten while nostalgic, the dreamer again did sing

a sorrowful melody of some melancholy meandering.

 

Oh, now there is a silent road ahead where people muse

we imagine an emptiness filled by travelers we amuse.