To celebrate May Day this year, I made a special decision, the kind that’s always meant to be made. I thought it’d been made years ago. A special kind of crazy exists in this world to keep those of us sharp, who feel ill at ease. There’s a special kind of crazy that exists because of the presence of intelligence and neglect and perfectionism, in a kind of soup, a kind of stirring, that only the act of stirring, for lack of another way exists.
And my writing becomes more and more poignant because the situation becomes more and more dire. It becomes more and more necessary. It becomes more and more viable to share, because it becomes more and more apparent that it resonates with the world around it. That more and more people MUST have experienced this type of love, expression of the word we hold dear! And the way it played was so different than
What they expected.
As thick as the mask may be,
As wide as its proliferation has extended
As strong as the story that defends it…
Poetry can go only so long and far to show its weaknesses. And with my length of patience and breadth of ability to accept pain and defeat for the ones I love, and the knowledge of the reasons why it invades my life at all, well…
Today we hit another reef in the ocean with the vessel of what I call me, the edge of what I call ok, the precipice of what I know to be the end of everything or the end of all these things…
So the day after May Day, I celebrate you, all the joy you brought, the adventures we shared, the falling walls of what we erected. Today I celebrate the person you could have been, the person you continue to construct and live closely enough to, to feel like reality.
Today I celebrate the end of the path I’ve paved and taken care to allow you, because of the lives we shared.
Today is the last day of any day we will ever walk together or alone with each other in mind. For today, you will be left with the ravages of your own mind. And as I dance lightly away, I will see your confusion again, for the last time.
Love to you and those who love you still. May they find their own love, see you for who they are, if for no other reason, than you do not split their lives in two, as you did to me.
And for those things we created together, I wish in wisdom and hope and blind faith, that all good things come from something, and I hope there is something you’ve left, you’ve laid. I wish for you to be the source of good things from which this death has sprung. And that something good is still a remnant, an artifice, a song from the legacy of the darkness of this limb of my life, of you, of us.