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My favourite song is playing on the radio;
I am drinking my favourite drink, in my favourite place;
my thoughts are in over-drive,
as I sit, looking around, with a smile on my face;
it’s raining outside, but life is sweet
and I am happy and warm inside- like hot raspberry jam;
I am having a flashback and a flash-forward,
between a happy little boy,
and a content old man.

I have always felt like a conduit;
I have always sought out and shared;
I have always believed that you can carry everything you need,
most of the time, in your trouser pockets;
I have always gone to the edge,
taken a risk, and gone farther sometimes than others might choose to dare,
in thoughts, in feelings, on foot, on a path
that never doubles back on itself-
but the things that happen on it do feel strangely familiar;
life is a playground of spins, swings, ups, and downs,
tears, smiles, pain, and laughter-
so it is never a surprise to me that things reoccur.

In this day and age, everybody is looking for a power-point,
a place to plug-in and recharge;
everyday, everybody, wherever they are,
take advantage of the free,
the seemingly-indispensable, the small, the large;
today, right now, a billion years ago, always,
life in all its forms makes the most of what it has
and what surrounds it, and everything reacts and adapts
to certain things, at certain times, in a myriad of ways.

Things have a history;
you can always find a pattern to follow;
the definitive meaning of life will always be a mystery;
but what everybody and everything really needs to know
is always with you and inside you wherever you go.

You can’t go around life, you can only go through it;
you can’t hide yourself forever,
because one day someone will unlock your soul,
and read your mind, and know your heart better than anyone,
and make you realize that you too are a conduit.

 

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Sitting, looking, taking in the view
of the young and the old, the timeless and the new-
I look up and out to a bustling city
constantly changing and revitalizing itself every minute,
as I sit alone staring at faces, windows, beauty, art, life,
from my spot at Millennium Place,
as sunlight bursts through the clouds and blesses where I am
so that everything is beautifully lit.

The city in which I am sitting was once described as a “ghost town”,
however I think that perception hasn’t been ascribed for a long time-
this city has a history, it is has a story;
this city reminds me of myself, and the people of this city
are like the infinite sides and colours of me;
I think that this city and I are by no means in decline-
I believe that we are in our prime.

Sitting on the circumference of this circular centre of congregation,
with a museum dedicated to the best inventions
of some of mankind’s best mechanical minds behind me,
I think about what the world has gone through, what I have been though,
the things that still stand on land,
and everything that lies, lives, and endures everyday in the sea.
There are creatures who live their entire lives in the dark,
deep, wonderland, water-expanses of the ocean floor-
completely oblivious to sunlight-
who have the ability to actively emit, change, and show their own colours,
whose bodies are as translucent as glass-
they shine in their own way,
some still to be seen by human eyes for the first time,
playing out a mystery unbeknownst to them, blissfully un-harassed.

As I grow older in heart, mind, and body,
I go to places, and I step inside the footprints of other people
who I imagine once followed the path that I am now on,
and my mind no longer feels foggy.
When you are a child you play in the fog-
the fact that you don’t know everything
doesn’t even become a fully-formed thought in your mind;
but you do want to do everything, you want to see everything,
and you have no idea that you should remember for later
the things that you leave behind.

I am enthralled by the future;
I adore every day, for many different reasons,
and as I get older I try to chronicle as best that I can
the days that have gone by-
because I have lost so much, and will continue to lose so much,
and because I have slowly began to give up the obsession of my youth
by stop asking the question: why?

We forget so much of what happens to us in our lives,
and when we do think back we often remember the bad before the good;
but we are not meant to remember everything-
even though at times we wish that we would,
and would give anything to ensure that we could.

Pure, undiluted, memory is momentary-
it lives for the briefest of times
and then it changes and evolves
into something else entirely.
Memory requires a totem, an anchor,
so that we can hear its echo again,
and see its projection-
something like a sound, or a smell,
or a symbol, or a feeling-
so that we can regain any kind of connection.

The events of our lives are like water in our hands,
and we are unable to stop our clear recollections of those events
from passing through our fingers like grains of sand;
however, no matter how many details fall away,
something always remains-
pieces of a life-time of memories and experiences of a puzzle enshrined within our brain.
It isn’t until we get older that we mourn what we have lost
and chastise ourselves for not remembering more-
that is why we celebrate and champion the achievements of others
when we are in their presence
and when we feel like we are a part of their accolade,
because it makes our aspirations soar.

In every culture on Earth since the beginning of recorded history,
humanity has endeavored to invent new ways of every kind
to help us recall that which we forget so easily:
calendars, cave paintings, monuments, time-pieces, reminders,
photographs- something we can look to
which will make sense of the world around us-
a life-line that keeps us from sinking to depths of perpetual unconsciousness.

The more heightened our emotions of something are
the stronger our memory of them will be-
that is why the more that you think about something,
and the more that you try not to think about something,
the more it will recur in your dreams
and float on the surface of your memory.

It is important to remember,
but you cannot remember everything, all of the time.
Just as in life, the greatest gift of our memories
is what pops into our minds when we least expect-
and the more unexpected the thought
the more that we ponder its origin,
and the more we reflect.

Yesterday, I walked to the top of a castle
and felt like a king as I looked out over the beautiful blue sea.
Today, I got out of bed, I got dressed,
I walked down the high-streets and roads
that I had never been down before,
and found myself walking down tunnels bored through solid-rock,
to squares of liberation and liberty.

Yesterday, I walked on the sea-floor of a harbour-
through tethered sailboats and fishing boats
that laid land-locked temporarily-
while the tide was out.
Today, I watched people start their day on this beautiful island:
commuting to work, going to school-
walking, running, talking, silent-
ready to begin their sun-blessed day,
seemingly without doubt.

Yesterday, I walked to the beach
and saw the effect of the ever-present Sun and Moon
on the Earth and on the ocean-
and as I took in the sea air into my lungs
I felt like a new man.
Today I watched life begin, continue, and change-
moving in every direction, and breaking the beat of a trance.

Yesterday, I felt the past touch me on the shoulder-
showing me and teaching me, yet again,
that what has passed does not mean that it now resides
in the realm of history.
Today I walked among the remnants of a great war-
one that changed the world forevermore-
and I feel more enlightened now than ever,
thanks to what I saw today,
and yesterdays journey of enlightenment-
which I am going to call from now on
my Gorey Story.

We love something with a history,
we adore someone who has a story-
and, sometimes, the more checkered the history,
and the more complicated the story,
the more that they garner the most attention,
and stir the greater furore.

People talk about and remember the things and the people
that make them think and feel something-
it could be the cost of life of a massacre;
or the remembrance of happiness
brought about by the song of a bell ring.

No one is one colour,
but people who judge tend to see themselves as if they are-
its not their fault that they do- it is just who we are:
we can’t like or love everything and everyone-
if that were the case, we would all miss the detail and the nuances
of something or someones defining characteristic
that sets them apart from the other boats on the ocean-
if that were the case, then there would be no mysteries, secrets,
conversation, or fun.

We seldom encounter the same characters in life
as we do in the pages of a book-
most of the time the characters of life do and say things
that are far more noticeable and accentuated,
and upon reflection are far more glaringly obvious;
however, people are often blinded by light,
and do not give something or someone another look.

Two dimensional characters are just two dimensional characters:
they tell us their story and we believe them,
because their words are all that we have to go on;
but even after years of reading their quotations,
our image of them continues to live like it had never really changed-
a constant drawing of calm.

Multi-dimensional characters:
people of everyday life, who change more in one day than they know;
the same multi-dimensional characters that people adore
for not being a single white light,
but for being a spectrum of all colour
that brightens, changes, flickers, and stutters:
perhaps they are the reason that we seek complexity in our lives,
and in our stories-
that which is always at the heart of all the best dark characters.

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