Get back out there.

Out there is the future.

Out there is more.

When I say “out there”, I mean outside of your mind, I mean outside of your house, I mean outside of whatever routine you’ve got yourself stuck in. Allowing yourself to live with the same sorrow, regret, or shame, the same memories, the same few people – or maybe no people – is not giving life a fair chance.

Life is not meant to be lived alone, but in community. It’s not meant to be lived solely in a house, but in nature. It’s not meant to be lived in grief and worry and grumbling, but in joy, peace, and love. It’s not meant to be lived in the past or the future, but the present. And it’s not meant to be lived in darkness, but in light.

You will find yourself in dark places, physically and mentally and emotionally and spiritually. You will find that life is sometimes the toughest uphill climb, or even a seemingly never-ending trek across the flattest field. And sometimes, you’ll find that you’re thrown into the water, at a total loss of control, just trying to stay afloat. Sometimes you fall, and sometimes you start to sink. but you’re never really in trouble until you choose to stop climbing, stop walking, stop swimming. Whatever comes your way, you get back up again. You swim back to the surface. The urge to give up is your biggest threat. Complacency should be your greatest fear. But when you find yourself in that awful place, when the last thing you want to do is keep climbing, keep walking, keep swimming, do it anyway. Do it to make progress. Do it to grow. Do it to make a difference in the world. You were created for a purpose; go discover what is it, and once you do, work at it with everything in you, because no one can accomplish it quite as well as you can.

So go find a new opportunity. Go meet some beautiful new people. Go laugh and go cry. Go work and rest and dream and accomplish things. Go set goals and meet them. Go learn and grow. Go live.

Get back out there.

There is a bridge of gold shimmering across the sea

Which no man may walk upon, for men are faithless

And to them all truth is illusion, all beauty a suffering.

But what a grace it is to watch the waters dance,

To watch the white doves dive and sail,

To see the dusk bloom red like a lover's kiss upon the earth,

And to behold in a tender hour

How the golden bridge burns like a million lanterns,

Like a thousand perishing souls upon a hundred homebound ships

Voyaging, sinking unto the eternal West,

Where only Christ might lay his bare feet upon Her

On the day of Judgement when the Beast will rise

And by the tongues of false prophets

Will etch his mark on the breasts of nations.

But the righteous will be received upon that bridge,

Hand in hand with that same light and that same truth,

Rejoicing in warmth and love

Over the bridge of gold.

___________________________________

Staring at the empty page.

Trying to put two cohesive thoughts together.

I think about all the places I’ve gone.

All the things that I’ve done.

The people I’ve known deeply and in passing.

The years are going by so quickly now

I still remember like it was yesterday.

Fishing in the river in the spring.

Belly laughs and skinned knees.

Walking in the Autumn leaves.

Snow ball fights in January Snow.

Lush summer days.

When I was young, I wished Summer would never end.

Every thing was an adventure.

I was Hawkeye.

I was the mad scientist.

I was the soldier who won the war.

I was the dreamer.

The years are going by so quickly now

I still remember like it was yesterday.

Ghost in the graveyard.

Tree forts and soda pop.

Belly laughs and skinned knees.

Lush summer days.

David Casabonne ( C ) 10.5.2021 All Rights Reserved

Love wound through my chest, weaving itself through my ribs and around my lungs, squeezing tightly so each breath had to be pushed out and each step felt laborious. It ran through my veins, hot then icy cold, red with passion and just as vital to me as the blood it replaced. All of a sudden I couldn't remember a time when I wasn't in love. Drowning in it, choking on it, breathing it in and out, seeing it everywhere I looked, soaked in it. It was the background of everything I did. It replaced the car horns and street noise on my walk home, the sound of keyboards clicking and tapping at work, instrumentals in my music, chatter on the bus. It was everywhere, it was insidious.

But it wasn't good. It felt like panic. It felt like paranoia, like torture. I told myself love was anxiety, it was fear. Fear that I wasn't good enough, that at any moment he would decide he didn't need me around anymore, fear that he already had, but kept me around because it was fun to watch me break myself apart for him.

Love became knowing that he was using me but finding comfort in the fact that all I needed was a body to be loved by him, even if it was only for a couple of hours. Love became taking god that he texted me after weeks of silence, it became relief in the form of getting naked, it became silently begging him to look me in the eye, to recognize me as a human being, to say my name. Love became wondering if he even remembered my name. Love became wondering if he had ever even saved my number in his phone. Love became solace in a facetime call because at least then I could remind him that I was beautiful. Love became turning pick-up lines into genuine compliments in my mind because that was all I could get from him.

For four years love was turning myself inside out for him because I couldn't imagine waking up every day without him in my life. It was dreadful, it was terrifying, it was lonely. I don't think love is supposed to be lonely. And then, one Tuesday night in January, it became nothing at all. A hole in my chest that I wasn't responsible for but had to heal anyways.

here you are again; bringing with you

an array of blooms bursting with colour and fragrance, each magnificent in their own right. adorning trees once more in opulent garments, delightfully dancing in the rhythm of ocean tinged breezes. bringing with you the sweet ecstasy of warmth after the long tragic cold. here you are again; your subtle exuberance long-awaited in the frigid gloom. your song staunchly memorised and dreamily echoed in your absence..here you are again; breathing life into the air once more, the reason for pretty sundresses and joyous ice cream. inciting evening strolls guided by the splendour of scattered shards of light. here you are again, at last.

My skin feels like dry silk.

My body is so warm and my blanket has fallen prey to the chill in the air.

My cup of black tea is burning hot and my tongue is going to have to deal with it.

I want to watch the sunset as I sip my tea, so I step out on to the porch.

I take a sip and watch as the wind twirls a trail of sand in a cone shape gracefully before it lowers the sand particles and comes rushing my way.

I hold my hand up to shield my face from the incoming biting cold wind.

The wind dances away from me just as I feel a painful tingle on my lips.

My lips are painfully dry, even though I recall putting on a layer of vaseline before putting on a layer of orange flavored lip stick.

Oh well, a sip of tea should help.

I raise my mug up for a sip.

My tea is stone cold.

my childhood is plagued in an atrociously beautiful mess of colors.

raspberry red reminds me of the slide on my elementary school's playground; it was the holy grail, to be quite honest. lines would stretch all the way to the monkey bars. they were a bright neon orange that attracted kids it to like they were flit-flit-flitting moths loop-de-looping towards a florescent porch light. some walked away from those bars with pinkened scrapes and some walked away with their arms in makeshift splints. the swings were a treat. if you got high enough in the air, you could taste the sugar droplets of the clouds above. the sweetness always melted on your tongue. 

then we all grew up, and we planted our roots in the pavements about our high school. we all mellowed out, and fell into the crashing waves of sophomores, juniors and seniors. we blended and blurred until we were even unrecognizable to each other. my world is now pastel yellows, beiges and greens. 

but i'll never forget the rainbow of my memories. i'll hold them dear, but only at arm's length.

Been home away for months

But then the regular call.

The family fights.

Stolen jackets.

Mother calling a thousand times.

Father burning dinner.

They know I'm surely coming.

Taking my train.

Music everywhere.

Just like when i was little.

Crowded shopping.

What can i get for everyone?

Calling for a hot coffee.

I'm freezing the evening.

Suddenly walking inside a store.

Discount posters everywhere.

I can finally buy a gift for my little sister.

But then some new toy is up on the market.

I bet she is contemplating about it.

Oh damn, its a hundred dollars.

My rent price.

I will probably find something else.

Haven't passed a street without a fat grey man.

I finally got to see a ukulele physically.

I have forty missed calls.

Definitely mother.

She all gets impatient.

Been home for three days now.

Everything like it used to me.

New neighbor, Boy looks cute.

Doubled cookie baking.

We are kinda many.

Mother hooks me up

With the cute neighbhour

It's embarrasing

How the star can't fit the tree top

But he's suddenly there

Picking me up from my fall

But sadly, I'm more rainbows than i look.

#SEASON #WRITER #IMAGINATION #SONG #FAT-MAN #AUTHOR #WRITING #COLOR

“The big pan is NOT OUT IN THE YARD AGAIN.”

No response.

“TONY there are SLUGS ALL OVER IT.”

“Lol”

“Love me” he finally texts back.

To make my family their favorite chicken, I have to use ‘The Big Pan’.

This pan is loved and hated.

Loved by Mom because I can feed my family their favorite chicken with the use of this ridiculously large baking sheet.

Hated by Dad because he does a lot of the dishes and The Big Pan does not fit in the sink or the dishwasher, and needs to be soaked in order to scrub off the baked on bits.

So in the yard the pan quietly goes.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Until everyone wants favorite chicken again.

Then I am left to clean off not only baked on maple syrup and garlic salt but now a varying array of non-edibles that are just as attracted to the favorite chicken as my children are.

Slugs, spiders, bits of chicken poop left in exchange from a beloved free-range hen.

I say “don’t put the pan in the yard”.

I say “please just clean it this time”.

I say “Your example is teaching the children bad habits”.

But as we round the corner to our first wedding anniversary, I can't help but chuckle to myself as I wipe off the slugs and lovingly make everyone's favorite chicken in my favorite Big Pan.

...

MJ