May 4 by The Running Son
It has been hard to read the posts I wrote, and I haven’t completely. Unlike my writing which has come easy… well not easy. I have to allow myself, always saying it’s ok. proceed. no what if’s’. No. If it is there, no slow typing or grungy half-key hardly working keyboard errors should get in the way of letting it roll out in its bumpy way. And whatever comes out, why not?
But it has been easier than other tasks before me, and taskmasters behind me reminding me that I just went through a full blown manic. and it was bad, and it was good. And I am here, still. Which is good of course. I have things I want to do, and a few old friends, Scott, that mean so much to me I can hardly stand it. But they are out there, still alive, and friendship is like a jewel but one that wont survive without air, breathed in to it, from both, the breath of conversation and smiles. Something, anything. a touch, a shout out, a reach out, a simple, I care.
But writing this is hard. I’ve been crying. Mr Jim and his rhyming sitting there and thinking about the most universal things. The ones that matter anyways. The ones that concern love and children and parents, and that concern death of course, and divorce and watching weekends and years go by, and the ones that concern missing things. Opportunities to go on a vacation to Europe or meet up with your birth-parents, or sing in a special event, or cry before a goodbye you didn’t see coming…mr or mrs prophet… it profits nothing so stop it. The time is now.
It’s time to go back in to old writings, and see what’s in them. Feels kind of like the first time all over again, like this writing, when you let the pencil or keyboard or mental-blocks go, it’s like I was back at 14 years old when it was easier for this California suburban kid to cough out poems or a drawing, or even a hug with a family member.
Crying and writing are ok. loving is ok too. letting someone in. Like I let you all in to my mess of a tag and category system, and a bipolar, iWriting look at me, bi-heavenly angels above my prose is just floating… but that’s ok, see. I say it’s ok. Nobody gotta follow me. I aint crazy, or a cult leader, or even a good speller.
But why not. Somebody said it was iA-O-K, and I *think* that somebody was me.
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