A Fork in the Road

It happens again, every day it seems, the little crossroads of life, the little decisions that determine whether you run the yellow light, or whether you spit in the morning. Those little crossroads do not mark transcendence; they’re just a playful sojourn, mind games of the “what if” that never amount to anything, except maybe a tired screenplay for a movie, or a science fiction show.

Sometimes, there is a major crossroad, those that fork out life unto a new rail. We know them; we’ve lived them, precisely this year. Yes, we’ve lived them.
I had another one last night.

Life fills you with scars. The physical ones are less parsimonious, although sometimes they do retain the incandescence about them, a halo of memory that astounds when one peeks at the wound and finds the calloused skin. The worse scars are those of the psyche, for they rear their head up at unconventional times, even when we‘re not looking, or when we’re actually trying to excise them. But this is impossible. There is no decision there.

But the fork in the road establishes a decision. I’ve reached this fork, this particular fork, many times, especially this last year. How many times do you face the same crossroad before finally deciding that the road not taken before should be the one taken this time? Some learn fast, and after the second or third time, they do it. Others are more methodical, or incongruous, or hesitant, or simply play the odds, and keep taking the same road, thinking that a moving target is harder to hit. And then, surrounding all the deliberations that accompany the fork in the road, something happens that makes you decide the other way.

That’s the scar. A wound so deep, it leaves behind its shadow; such a formidable scar is too obvious, like a burn to the eyebrows, or a deep crevice from a sword into your chest.

That’s where I am, about to take the other road.

A wound was made last night. This time, it won’t heal…

I'm not sure

Not sure how we got here.
It's not a mystery, but it still hurts.
After all the promises whispered, after
the affection and love,
after my fingers derelict against your body
after all the thoughts we brewed
nothing prepares for forgiveness,
or for everlasting regret,
only remains the scar of
all that remains, all that is left
regret, it's a loaded word,
that erases everything, when it doesn't
because, if you take the pain away,
only beauty remains,
intertwined like flowers and thorns,
in a tattoo.

Leaving is next up,
it was always in the cards.
We’ll never know now, will we,
if it was the final step?
Before returning to the memories,
before espousing other plans,
which will remain unspoken
in the silence of the night,
and all those quirky remembrances,
wrapped around a cloak of pain,
hopefully will remain so, and time
will always remain.

Forgiveness

I’ve spoken of forgiveness and remembrance;
I’ve defended all my memories,
making sure they remain, they don’t fade away.
I can’t.
Every ounce still belongs;
every memory still jolts me in the middle of the night.
They keep me awake,
making sure I always have them,
and keep me going.
Hope.
That all powerful stimulant.

I ask for forgiveness, and it drips,
Like molasses, those sweet tears
That kept enthralling
Our reality.

“Don’t pout”
Too late,
Always so late.

No courage,
That’s where it all belongs,
No courage, no rage, simple as that, rage,
Rage that life could be so simple,
Rage to throw all away, well, not all,
But that all important thing, love.

Wouldn’t be the first, history confesses,
Love is freely disposable,
A tradable commodity,
But not this, this will always remain, obscured
By my penchant for wishful thinking,
Against my penchant for wishful inaction,
By the sand trap of life that clogs my pores, and numbs me, numbs
That’s how I survive, numb
That’s how I breathe, numb,
That’s my absence, numb,
Not hiding, just numb,
Because your presence will hail my numbness
Destroy it and my penchant for inaction might suffocate, and it
Will appear as if finally I will, I will, but
Eventually I will just hurt you again, and again,
Until I shed my penchant for calm ineptitude, and embrace you
with my new penchant for common sense.
And love.

Obama Endorsement

Last night I was tired. Today I woke up feeling the same way. I was thinking a hot coffee might help me start my day, sort of like diving into the deep end of a pool, not knowing its depth. Then, while checking my emails, I found this video.
There are not that many people who can inspire with a word. The spoken word begins as a written word, and the written word begins in the mind. It sprouts from an idea, from an electrical current of inspiration, or from necessity, or from interest. Then, the word rushes forward, it grows, and has to come out. The brain is a small place for an idea, for a word. So it comes out, through the tip of a pencil, through our fingertips against the keyboard, from the tip of the tongue.
Sometimes it stays there. There are so many ideas, so many words. Most lack singularity, others lack foresight, a few fly irrelevant.
But sometimes, one idea comes out, shinny, spotless.
“Yes, we can!”
It’s a cry already promoted by our Latino brothers, during Cesar Chavez’s struggle for human rights. It’s the voice of hundreds of thousands of Colombians who, wearing white like grooms and brides of peace, demanded the end of war and the release of all kidnap victims. It is a thunderous cry, a simple idea, three simple words, like Obama says. These are proud letters that stand up against the antipathy of politicians, against the irony of the electoral process, against the irrelevance promulgated by the great economic powers. My one lonely vote: am I important?
“Yes, we can!”
That’s why today I support Barack Obama’s candidacy for President of the United States. Because with three words, spoken by lips without a race, the man inspires. It takes more than inspired oratory to lead a nation, that’s clear.
But how good does it feel when a leader conquers you in such a way that it inspires the authors of this video. Obama’s words have become the seed for a song. Words spoken within the impurity of an electoral campaign become chords, rhythm, and a song.
When’s the last time a politician made you feel this way?