Center of the World (Your Room)

The center of the world
is just a thumb on the palm of your hand.
It's plain and dry
without any complex meaning or color
and is as familiar to you as the sky is to a bird.
Yet there is a complexity about its growth, and the presences within.
 
Like your bedroom in your youth, a dresser or cabinet filled with clothes
or a bookshelf on an old desk
or even a computer (if you had one) filled with the comings and goings of your mind's quandaries.
Your necklaces and rings and jewelry in a close by box
next to another filled with your fondest memories
being just the tip of the iceberg of experience.
 
Really, going into such an old and fond place is nostalgic.
You remember intimately what went where and why it did and what caused this and that to happen.
The center of your world…so far away after growing up and leaving.
And you walk outside of that old room in that old house on that old street that needs to be repaved…
and look at where your family used to sleep.

They're all gone,
long since passed is the time you first decided to play the fool by pretending to smile through the pain
you carry always.
A sister, maybe a brother, more…
Your father, your mother, maybe even your grandmother and grandfather that lived in an old room with flowery wallpaper…
they're all gone.
Their children have grown up and have had children.
Your friends have all left and grown their own families.
Time really seems to change quickly.
In who knows how many years, you'll go too.
 
Yet this world is still pristine in where you left it.
You'll be fondly remembered by those you've loved more than life itself.
You'll die and your world will die with you.
It's fine to cry…
One last time.

 

ISA

Rainy Sunday (Happy New Years)

Sunny rainday;
Two syllables swapped make as much sense as they should.
Clear air, cloudy with the chill as water falls on your back
Lives with an unapproachable feeling.
"Butterflies are moths"
I used to tell myself over a cup of frigid tea
Looking over the white porch, across a damp lawn, towards a slick road.
 
It used to be warm
On the hot days.
Now it's just stifling and I can't breathe without the ice
that's been around long enough to deaden my sense of the cold.
 
It's dark too.
There aren't many colors out of the grey.
Maybe the orange glow of streetlamps bright at two a.m.
Shrouding any glimpse of the stars
Can get my color back.
 <->
"Feeling feels good,
That I know.
Beyond the horizon that's coming in 'just five seconds',
the hunger that's never satisfied,
and the dreams that dare to dream when I fall asleep. "
 ---
"I've always been a glutton.
I eat too much, I sleep too much…
Yet I'm never full.
"Too few colors, Too little description."
A painting worked on for twenty years doesn't so much as skim the topsoil of the art I've eaten.
Yet.
It's just as beautiful.
It's just as gold and crystal, rich as gems and silver, as any one thing I've had."
 ---
"A meal is complete in one dish.
It means that everything you need can be contained in one recipe.
A story must be complete;
A piece of art must be considerate of its details;
Your words must be finite, restrained and hold all the meaning you mean it to."
 <->
I think too much for such a meaningless picture.
At the end of the day it's just a street, a cup of tea, the rain, and some grass.
I'm just on the porch watching.
And I don't plan to do anything.


ISA