The music surged
over us and through
and us, it
and our bodies coursed with the song
converging to a crescendo
cascading over cliffs
and fog erupted from rock in thick, transparent streams
dissipated into sky
and the dawning light was alive.
It danced with us to the electric beat
as lasers streaked from the sun
as fists pumped in unison
and we jumped as one
loved as one
until all of us
–we were inseparable
united in a common energy
an electric dance
I had a conversation with some friends last night. About getting older. About “acting your age.” See, I’m 26, and I don’t want to offend any of you who are older than me by saying that I feel soooo old, but there is a definite sense of aging, of leaving the invincibility of youth. But this awareness is mostly physical. In my spirit, I don’t feel old. I feel like me, Mike, and I’ll feel young forever. I’m convinced. Because I’ve talked to my friends who are in their thirties. I’ve talked to my parents and grandma. And apart from the physical aging, which none of us can escape, they all say they don’t “feel” their age.
I created something once. A story. The words poured. Out from my heart as one thing, out from my mind as something else, and converged and swept through my veins, down my arms, to the tips of my fingers. And my fingers stepped against the keys in perfect rhythm, moving as one, in the most sensual of dances.
I could touch the empty space
more present than fullness itself.
Moonlight is a dangerous thing when you’re with a girl.
It does what your heart cannot always do.
It shows you what your eyes cannot always see.
We become what we desire.
It’s not the surface desires that we become,
They flit away on quiet breezes
dance among petals
defend us against ourselves
against the world
–right or wrong–
and all its accusations.
and only secondly,
we are made in the image of subterranean desire
–those that dwell, and sometimes hide, in the underground caverns
the unknown depths
of the heart.
I sit in my cube, stare at this white and glowing screen. To my left and to my right, bland and grayish cubicle walls. I’m stiff. I’m tight. I need to stretch, so I do, arching my back and extending my arms, twisting one way then the other.
It doesn’t help.
The physical constraint is the minor issue. The main issue: my spirit longs for something more.
My like for English, for the discovery of words and the lilt of syntax, was written into my future before a single day came to be. This is evidenced in several ways, but right now I’m thinking how, in high school, English wooed me with its siren’s song. Okay, not really. At first I liked it because I was good at it, and I had teachers whose passion dripped from sleeves, who lived out the word “fun,” knew more than just the Webster’s definition.