.thank you (pass it on).

i had forgotten.

it surprises me that noticing something that’s missing can take such a long time; years even.

even more surprising when what’s missing is: self.

and not the proverbial, past version of ourselves that enjoyed ring-pops, nerds candy, sonic the hedgehog and folding paper notes and planes in classrooms that would become simultaneously our safe havens, wrestling arenas, boutiques, runways and church sanctuaries in our adolescence—our homes away from our homes.

not even the abstract self that we hope to be when the dust of life finally settles after we are done warring with all of the metaphorical forces that seek to shape us into the graven images that beckon us from behind our various sized glass windows—the ones in our pockets, living rooms and office spaces.

but the self that i think God made.

the self unaffected and untouched by all of the above.

the one that just feels right.

i almost forgot what it feels like to be me, and even being in this space again feels familiarly unfamiliar—like astronauts who retired from nasa missions long ago and have become accustomed to grounded life—the soils, sands and safety of the terrain providing stability—then being called upon for one last journey into the final frontier above the clouds and below the heavens—the coldness and darkness and wonder and brilliance of it all—filled with black holes and supernovas that share the vastness of the beyond and the 3 lb. mass between our temples…both being infinite, relatively.

gazing at the skies again,

and remembering,

feeling,

hurting,

smiling.

knowing they belong there—but don’t truly belong anywhere—especially not here.

—

and even with all of the emotional tornadoes and monsoons inside their (my) heart in those moments of awe and thought…

…thankfulness bubbles up from inside like tiny geysers on the surfaces of fertile islands across distant oceans that are still undiscovered.

i bet you imagine them the same as i do.

—

it’s ironic to apologize for a thank you, but, i feel that i must.

only because it’s the proper response for having a life returned to it’s owner—even if by chance and happenstance.

nothing is chance or happenstance.

—

so, i’m sorry for thanking you so much.

but, thank you.

—

unintentional acts of valor are still acts of valor.

even the ones performed by innocent bystanders standing aside and watching a tragedy unfold—

being there, uninvolved, capturing the moment in their net of awareness may cause them to go home and hug their child a little bit tighter tonight.

talk to their mother a little bit longer.

love our God a little bit deeper.

—

when i thank you,

i suppose,

i’m actually thanking Him.

—

—

—

…could you pass it on?

•

clear and colorful memories of being a blurry figure in the background of drastically opposing views.

“you can be anything” and “you’re not good enough” stood at center stage of my world; i always found myself just out of sight, at stage left, holding a silk rope, and waiting for my cue to close the curtains on them.

i couldn’t wait for the scene to change.

moist palms from fear induced sweat, mixed with tears disguised as laughs, so that i wouldn’t have to answer awkward questions—it evolves from “defense mechanism” to “skillset” after the first couple of decades—i’ve counted.

peripheral views are home for me; so you can imagine how equally pleasing and pitiful it was, it is, to watch them both in the spotlight of my life, all of my life; offering oscar-worthy performances in the golden, silver, wooden and earthen vessel decorated theater of my soul.

i’ve been encouraged to be,

and to do,

anyone,

and anything,

except for,

myself…

and what i want…

…for as long as my memories allow me to time-travel into my yesterdays.

so, the nervous ball that i’ve conceived in the pit of my stomach as i’ve stood here, stage left, knowing that the words, “and…scene” are both inevitable, and forthcoming, is almost too much to bear.

i know how wandering souls feel:

trudging through infinite tunnels, toward tiny circles of light, that grow with each gruelingly satisfying step.

i know how the dark feels.

i know how the light feels.

just, not how i feel.

•

what about me?

am i,

are we,

both?

•

beautiful wreckage *

some

times

trauma.

resurfaces like wreckage from forgotten ocean floors — rusted and heavy.

slowly rising and displacing all that lies in its path — disrupting the stillness of the shoreline to remind us that it has always been there. settled. sitting.

maybe it’s time to explore it?

this, beautiful wreckage.

sunken treasures have been found in more treacherous places — why should the memories and psychological remnants of yesteryear be any different?

why can’t there be treasure here, too?

why not, in me?

– ???

the righteous ones haven’t forgotten that they were wronged

they’ve simply chosen a higher path, instead of justified vengeance

[ew]

you can’t look away, can you ¿

me neither •

staring into a noon sun has never burned so beautifully for either of us —

i never got the chance to thank you for hurting me before •

and i never apologized for wanting you so fiercely then leaving you so swiftly —

two relentless suns in an overcrowded sky •

[we.]

am i serious ¿

right and left brain collisions are mini big-bangs that act as my alarm clocks and thrust my consciousness back into reality every morning •

differential equations and literary phrases wrap themselves around my spinal cord like colorful ribbons — attaching themselves to my nervous system and crossing all incoming and outgoing signals like when we first met years ago •

yes, I still remember too •

look up this song and listen to it •

maybe it could be ours, quietly ¿

——

//[slow scroll]\\

let it all go and hold you instead.

i wish i could.

enveloped in these hopes that haven’t reached fruition yet.

i’m not sure if i worded that correctly, but formalities and grammatical correctness and order and systematic, scientific approaches lose their power when full hearts just want expression.

fruit. that’s the point i was making.

hanging in the balance, and from branches made of my worries and wishes.

is that what i said at the very beginning?

yes.

moving on.

bitter nectar from sweet, round, soft skinned ornaments dangling from trees that i didn’t have the foresight or fortitude to plant myself when i had the chance.

but, you allow me to eat from them still.

i don’t get you.

not at all.

nor do I really want to.

how could you disregard all that i’ve done and didn’t do?

it doesn’t seem fair for you to love me unconditionally when conditions are all that i seem to have any control over lately—even that’s an illusion i’m sure.

i have no idea why i find myself attempting to jog the forgetful sea’s memory every chance i get.

it’s so difficult to run through water, but I still try.

i’m sorry.

can i come back to you again tomorrow?

smh.

of course you’d say ‘yes’.

thank you.

💕

<••> knilb

the fear

of precious things being suddenly taken

the hope

of dreams being eventually realized

two mirrors

that when placed in front of the soul

reveal the truth

of us all

fortunately, blinking is an autonomic and reflexive process

millions of millisecond breaks

from all that concerns us

from all that calls us

so that they don’t break us

blink. blink.

blink.

memories

there’s glory after this

and hope to carry us there

seems so cliché when

we’ve become so accustomed to fear of the invisible and distance between us and those who should be the closest

the energy required to decipher lies and discern spirits is much more than i anticipated — how about you?

failed attempts to mend broken connections like dropped calls in dead spots on country roads that remind me of Saturday morning rides with my great-gram and great-aunt that i unfortunately dreaded at the time

i miss them both now — and i wish i had known back then just how much i would eventually be willing to give for just one more ride today

just one more

and watch the barns and tobacco fields swoosh by my window

hear them laugh again as we headed to pick strawberries in hot sunlight that bathed me —

at least i have the memories

i miss the movies

movies aren’t supposed to be predictable.

it’s the little shocks and surprises that make blinking seem disrespectful and the expensive popcorn prices more reasonable.

it seems like an antiquated practice now that planet earth got sick and couldn’t come out to play for a year—but, i miss the movies.

arriving early, alone, hopefully in a seat next to no one, waiting for the opening credits and ads to finish—listening for the director’s choice of opening music and the writer’s selection of initial dialogue—excited to be thrusted into another world that will make me forget about mine for an hour and fifty-four minutes.

away.

interestingly enough, i think we became the movies in the March of 101 score anno domini.

we became the star-studded cast and the nervously anxious onlookers simultaneously.

we watched ourselves maneuver through a plot summary filled with hero’s and heroine’s journeys, suspense, climaxes and cliffhangers designed for the most skilled thespians—and we never auditioned.

not a single curtain call.

and the location scout decided that the whole world would do just fine.

i suppose art grew weary of imitating life and vice versa—

they decided to become one.