“Little bird who knocks against the glass, I’m happy to not be what you’re looking for, as you aim your passion towards an imagined other. I admire your vigor. I used to house an intensity equally unstoppable, if not more so. And with that ferocity, one is prone to drive into walls, off cliffs and into the depths of despair, without really knowing why. The props of life create a convincing adversary. My days have blurred into a watery stream, diluting what I thought I knew into an indistinct background of uncertainty. We’ve built alliances on shifting sand which is honestly all we can do, believing flattering words, like “I love you”. And yet the artifacts remain, scattered about like glacial scree. Something I made for you. Something you built for me. Our footsteps through the forest, feeling every lump and depression, slipping on snow in ravines, needing only to be encouraged with a nod to traipse beyond the usual boundaries. We eagerly, innocently wasted time doing things that didn’t get counted or inventoried. It’s not the same; yanking open the screen to find the general store by the pond virtually empty. No one’s bothered to put up notices on the bulletin board because there are no events. I was too shy to say anything to the stranger on his motorcycle. I would have gone with him but instead I shuffled on. Back to my car, back to my routine in exile. The culture of cross-pollination may be over for a whole generation. That messy, spontaneous curiosity that wants to know everything about you and steal an illicit kiss. That’s why I sink down hard onto the ground, with a heaviness that says, you ain’t going far. Just work with what you got, & give it everything you got left. Clean up last year’s mess, prune out the dead stuff. No one’s going to save you, except maybe that tiny bird. The one hitting the glass. looking past you, at itself in the mirror, mad as hell. Unsure why current methods are not nearly as rewarding as they used to be. Showing the kind of indignant rage we all should be feeling right about now - at ourselves, for being hoodwinked. Like the dark red flowers still blooming on a bush I never could quite identify, that will soon be dropping petals. I’ll drive out of my way, to be there until all the color is gone. With you or without you, this zig-zag in the dark towards freedom continues.”
