A curve, a curl, a twist. A blade, a shoulder. Bliss is not a word I would use to describe this. No, supreme happiness, euphoria is not this. This is deeper than that surface level hope for a reality free from blue or black or whatever the world’s used to misconstrue depth. Real, bruised, truth, in twos. 1, 2, 1, 2, count the pulse. Hear that rhythm sounding across the room? Sizzle cymbals burning through the mist of past, uncovering metallic resonations. Conflagrations have come and gone and may come again. They’ve pruned and burned and hurt but left some things that withstand the heat. Things of greater worth than bliss. I thought I had completely missed bliss but have learned and earned the right to this real deep contentment. It sifts through the rock walls I have constructed over time. I see a leak over there in the mortar but understand now which walls need to remain and which walls were constructed to keep the pain at bay on the other side, over there across the way in another twist of fate. I hold on to the knowledge and wisdom gained, to the little souls I will protect and teach and with whom I will share flames of life day by day, cherishing the twists and turns, the bumps, bruises and burns. In time we must all take turns and I will breath deep and sigh through the good, bad and ugly with them as they grow and move on to other things outside of me.
Cataclysmic shifts in situations initially threatened to uproot and destroy me. A proverbial ship lost at sea, no “thing” to push and direct the sails. Lost… But once again flames took that old broken boat from beneath my feet and thrust me into the deep blue, down 10, 20, 30, now 40 and beyond the color spectrum of yellows and reds and pinks and blues, and black below. Rays continued to trickle through though. Truth, transparency, reality brought buoyancy. I slowly moved up, back to the surface where sun and shine can burn, but life giving breaths come from everywhere. No longer depending on tubes, masks and tanks. I unclench my jaws and spit, the regulator hits water and sputters. Compressed air bubbles out loud fizzles and giggles, but the gauges still float beside me. Guides, emotions, realities, knowledge, wisdom, fires and truths whispered every day are released and numbers subtract into the red warning. Attached to the tank, they provide the real picture of what’s left in there where that compressed air continues to squeeze out spreading molecule sized wings and floating away into minuscule horizons, that when merged together untether the old barometer. Replacing depleted wine skin with new leather, new oil not from myself, but a top shelf variety I always knew was there but tried to contain in my box with extreme care until now here in the middle of this great rolling ocean.
A twist, a curl, a curve, a touch, a pat, a kiss, maybe bliss? Yes I guess it depends upon what your definition is. Mine is this… This? This is the shit, and I won’t miss a moment of this, hiding behind worry to experience the up and down, push, pull, roll and quiver waiting around each corner when two real trues push through the blacks and blues to (insert big thesaurus word for) experience the pulse and sizzle that holds each gasp and laugh, giggle and sarcastic ass comment leading the way to see where this shit will go…I certainly do not know, but I cherish this right here and now, and will not fear the future curves, rolling across the water that now showers us separately and together. Rainy weather where sun shines through unexpected entries into deep wholesome laughter. This is what I’m after, swinging from the rafters on ropes of hope. Nope, not going to allow those old interlopers into the nows or tomorrows. Clever witticisms surround teatolalism practitioners from the present and the past. Future “musn’ts” will be reviewed and unjust dues removed. Happy boundaries keep them at bay and walay the lies once lived in order to release this captive into freedom.
This? Yeah, it may be bliss. I can’t dismiss that. But I will not rely on a quantified or even academically qualified definition of “this”. No, I will chuckle, and wink, and enjoy this, while I quote a positively present postulate supported by papers upon papers of masterful propositions, suppositions and compositions leading to one simple premise that this, right here…is the shit…