The Refuge of the heart

We were a small gang of nobodies, attempting to become somebodies.

We all had this in common. We had left relationships and careers. Trying to start again. Attempting to find our footing and start climbing again.

They would pat me on the back with understanding and say to just hang in there. It would be worth it in the end.

Everyone had taken a pay cut just to get in.

I was living on rice and bourbon and coffee.

Sometimes I would be asked if I had a girl. I would smile and say, no.

The older I got the more relaxed I got. I didn’t try to rush things. I didn’t try to force things. I had my drive, my goals, yes.

But if there was a girl, that sometimes wanted to talk or send a beautiful picture, that was fine and in turn, I would send a line of poetry if late at night I found I couldn’t sleep.

And I would sit in bars and listen to conversations. And I understood. Finally.

We all hold on to something. And we all need something. It’s much easier if we accept people where they are at when they meet us. If they need good conversation. Acceptance. Arms to hold them. Or just someone to drink with.

And even those who dismantle and repair beliefs still hold to a certain idea and way of seeing things that they secretly hope, will never be dismantled.

I was about to be 31 and I was finally ok with seeing these things.

And I hoped everything would turn out ok for all of us in the end.

Connections take time. Careers take time. Discipline takes time.

You could be so angry about the things a year took from you, or you could let it go. I looked back over some years I spent angry about politics and realized, those years turn to ash. They become useless.

I chose to simply get up and do my best with whatever days I had left. And no matter what, to try and make my art.

It was cooling off, it was September, I poured my coffee. I thought about how many people we meet and how many people do we really know?

There was a motorcycle that drove between all of us, passing by us on the interstate .

I thought about the rush and the haste to get somewhere, anywhere.

I thought about her eyes. And how beautiful she was. And how rare, truly rare it is. To meet someone that can just pull poetry out of you. I hoped she was happy. Wherever she was.

I was old enough to understand, some years you write everyday and night and some years you write once a month.

For now, I was writing. I was drinking, I was laughing, and I was struggling.

And there would be other days ahead.

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