The world is so long and our days so short. I wonder of the treasures my eyes will give witness to before closing for their final time. Is there a child’s laughter my heart will jump to hear, will there be distant memories of a loving marriage, stages and shows, autographs, and plane trips. I wonder if my feet will ever plant on Africa’s soil. I’ve heard you can see the heat rise off the land over the horizon. I feel like my passion exudes from my skin like the heat of Africa. It simply is. There is no need of definition for some things. I do not want to simply exist, I want to live. I want to see the world and be happy. If we only have one shot at life then I feel I have the right to have it as I like. Custom order coming right up.
There are limitless opportunities right over the horizon.
I got choked up watching “Eat Pray Love”… something in me related to the desire of the character. I want to get up and go, see, explore, run, hide, seek, find so many things. Maybe I can lose myself to find myself. I want to see the elephants in Thailand, Jet Ski in Hawaii, I want to scuba dive, and visit the temples. I want to climb mountains and pray with people in foreign lands because regardless of the entity, we all submit to a higher being. My heart races with the anxiety of things I may never have a chance to do and in the midst of trying to chisel myself out of this mainstream mundane life, I find myself drowning in the desire to simply have more. No, I can’t return your calls right now. I don’t have time to go with you to the movies or out to lunch. I apologize for not being where you need me to be but right now I am following my dreams and they’ve got this death hold on me.
When I was younger they told me that writing was going to be the death of me. That is wasn’t going to get me into anything but trouble. Hell I didn’t have much to aspire because as needed as it is; unconditional love can’t be your only source of inspiration. It’s a delicate process. Writing was my refuge when the world was the enemy. Writing was my comfort on the many times my mother stood me up. Writing captured my tears and rage. Writing was a white canvas when dirty hands bloodied my sheets. My pen yelled across those lines, scribbled, quickly written, etched deeper than needed to see. I wrote when I had not a soul to tell. I hid secrets in plain view… But I was told that it was all a waste of time. I still get sick when I try to walk away from this art. Writing heals me… Writing helps to heal others… I simply want to do well.
There aren’t many materialistic things I can think of wanting before death. I want to be happy, well traveled and cultured. I want to be loved and to have lived a long prosperous life. I want to be respected by those that I had the pleasure of meeting. I want to remember countless barbeques, house parties, football games, summer vacations, and long nights. I want a memory of pictures to flash across my lids in m final hours. I don’t want my writing to be in vain. The light has always been at the end of the tunnel, I simply need to feel its warm embrace.