I wrote you a poem. It was supposed to explain how I felt and the things I was going through. It was to stand for all the instances in which I was unable to tell you face to face. The poem was supposed to make the world better. It got stolen.
The irony is that the poem would have done nothing. It wouldn’t have changed the world, it wouldn’t have erased the pain or sadness. The poem would have just shown you how much I thought about this, how in-tune with my feelings I really am, and how the thoughts and emotions were all for naught.
In all actuality, the poem being lost is representative of our collective future. Gone. Not to be rekindled or found. Something in the past that cannot be recaptured. A simple memory that glows bright within the dark recesses of my soul and being.
It is odd that art can hold both possibilities. It can create and it can terminate. The success of art, in this case poetry, can actually be more tangible when the art fails. When the art remains hidden, when the intent and/or message is lost forever, the poem may hold greater substance. We live in a world where sometimes the unknown is more powerful than the perceptible.
People are tormented by their emotions, feelings, and thoughts. Stay up through the night, run every situation through their head as they try to grasp the reality of their life. Re-living the good, the bad, the ugly, just to get closer to the true emotion is a tormentor, a teaser, a siren in the misty fog of our consciousness.
We do this for a multitude of reasons, none more important than the other. It is a part of our existence to come to terms, to cope, to build, to move on. How we accomplish this is entirely personal, completely unique and not always successful.
The physical reality is that you are surrounded by your past. Whether it is regularly running into the physical form or having moments everyday in which to reminisce, our past exists as a shadow as we walk down life’s busy streets on a sunny day. It casts its own existence on the things we see, meet, pass and miss during our daily lives.
To embrace this reality, to be aware that our past is with us, part of us, is a tough accomplishment. We need to know that we have not done wrong for ourselves, not purposely done wrong onto others, but have given our best to be the best. If it doesn’t work out, there is a reason, if it does, there is also a reason. These reasons may not seem sensible, not at the time they happen or years later, instead, they are merely reasons, instances in which something caused something further. They should be accepted for such, no more no less. To drag the situations that cause us pain and heartbreak through the mud daily does nothing to help us grow. If anything, it stunts our development like and 8 year old lifting weights. It may seem to work, it may seem smart, but in the long run we have done nothing but curb our ability to flourish in the way we ought to have.
I will write more poems. One may even one day be for you. I may or may not lose it. What is brilliant in this world is that the emotions behind the poem are not fleeting. The moments won’t die or relent, it is just an opportunity to catch them in a glass jar and watch them flicker as the oxygen slowly runs out.
Let life be your greatest master. Let your education come from within, from the people you meet, love, miss, enjoy, and you will find yourself much smarter than when you began.
The journey of life is a journey. An incomprehensible series of events meant to test, challenge, inspire, and motivate us to become all that much more for the next day.
For all of your tomorrows I wish you not to forget today.
