Through a whiff of the familiar
a distant memory
a word
a sound,
the past beckons.
It’s hazy view
tempting onlookers to look once more
to contemplate all once forgotten.
To read again it’s chapters
and search for new meaning.
Transported suddenly.
Through the sharp realities of the present
to days gone by.
To a place where the daily was a different day.
When the blue specter of sleep
came eagerly in the night,
because it was hungry.
And fueled not by obligation,
or responsibility,
but by sheer exhaustion,
or magical potions that tasted bitter on the tongue.
When I was The Keeper of the Night.
When I performed the daily
in less than moderate excess.
Fueled by obsession and exponential energy
from a place of self-hatred
enduring an endless search.
When meaning had no real meaning.
When the only way to acquire my smile
was superficially
and briefly.
Happiness was ecstasy.
Found in a bottle
or tablet
or wallet
or a text late at night
or a bed somewhat foreign.
And it was brief,
biting, fleeting, and fighting to mean more.
When loud, intoxicated voices
bragged of big plans
that would never leave the bar
unless swept up off the floor
and tossed away after last call.
When the lies did not feel like lies,
but time passing would ensure that they became so.
When smoke filled the balmy night air,
as well as our heads.
And fantasy,
and reality,
and all sense of time,
intermingled and danced together
in the flecks of the colored lights
of dusty decrepit buildings
into a cruel tango.
Ever quickening into a feverish tempo
that somehow slowed down the passing of our own lives.
We spoke of leaving.
Of becoming more.
Or less.
All were in that place,
because they were searching
for something almost impossible to find,
and even harder to maintain when found.
Working so hard to avoid working,
but somehow simultaneously working harder than most people.
Trying hard to avoid trying.
But somehow
those who work and try differently
are magically rewarded by a cosmic power
that others may see but not greet.
Blind to the awareness
of the options they have had all along.
Their perspective is sadly skewed.
But how could one know what they do not know?
Only those brave enough to outstretch their hand
and let go of the firm grip they hold
on all they know to be real and familiar
can then grasp this gift.
A map of the stars.
Given so freely,
but costing a risk so significant,
no one would choose it without hesitation.
And then
a single summer difference,
and the universe has shifted.
Not only transported, but also transformed.
Rapidly the daily is shifting
and warping
into a different reality.
No longer is the quest for contentment fleeting.
It is truly attainable,
if not any less difficult.
Now, not just accessible by midnight train
serviced by a conductor of self-hatred.
It is presently glowing,
even on the hottest of days.
And echoes of past summers passed
moan from their graves like phantoms in the night.
Their songs solemn.
Always reminding the listener
that they can rejoin that life,
if they ever so choose.
The map also indicates the pathway back to where the journey began.
The past need not stay where it rests,
if the patron chooses the familiar
over the gift once more.
