Year’s end always sends thoughts into the past.
Review and reflection. Celebrations and regrets. Conclusions.
But briefly. Then to a future near
and far but all unclear, unformed, undetermined.
Momentarily, no present. No now. No self.
I flow today like this two-hearted river.
My energies come from two different places
in my past that should have passed,
but they have pooled around me today.
I’m trying to empty them. Dissipation. Loss.
I no longer believe in the green
light on Daisy’s dock, or any place,
or the future moving away from me.
But I do believe we’re boats against
the current, borne back into the past.
“Gatsby” via www.flickr.com
Refuge from the confusion of home life.
A place where everything was scheduled, disciplined.
The comforting predictability of seven normal hours
of being expected to be only thirteen,
before I returned to early adulthood responsibilities.
After the dreaded Algebra and Chemistry when
we would talk music, read Rolling Stone,
eye the girls and share our fantasies
about them and the near far future
forgetting equations unbalanced, dreams never to happen.
At fourteen, I thought less about the future
and, unaware of Buddhism, lived in the moment.
Even a day was usually unplanned, spontaneous,
open to what the universe had planned for me.
If life is like a sonnet, the turn occurred when
the future became my focus and the present
rushed by out of control, and the past
became nostalgia, a read book fondly remembered.
At fourteen, I believed, without proof, in eternity.
The days unfolded unbidden and I was content
in thinking at some point I would be able to see
That fourteen-year-old’s future is my present,
slipping away from what I wanted it to be,
and even partially my past, now already spent.