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 •
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 —
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.
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—