C. P. Monaghan's Blog

I look at the thinking man

His chin propped up by his fist

His furrowed brow, looking down

I wonder what thoughts are in the midst

Of his troubled mind, perhaps at peace

Forever confined, until his eventual release

He’s lost in the labyrinth

The sunlight only peeps over the mossy walls,

The archaic beast looming with shadows

Surrounded by the illusionary, forever entranced

He feels deeply, the man romanced

The lovely aurora circling his head, the poets marvel at this

A misty veil shrouds his inner workings, the skeptics suck their teeth

The sculptors gather around, trying their hardest to capture his image

The philosophers discuss from a distance, hoping to crack the code behind the flutters of his eyelids

What we never conclude is he is not in thought

Nor debate, nor reminiscence, nor contemplation

No, this man confirms no such theory

When he opened his eyes and said “Amen.”

“The world don’t change. Not for nobody. ‘Specially you.” I can still hear my mawmaw croaking those words. I didn’t know what that meant. Surely the world does change. Over time though, I saw. The world don’t change, it’s all about how you see it.

On October 2nd, something rose up in me. Something in the woods made it all the way up my chest and started thumping. So, I ran to it. I sprung from my lawn chair and strode off down the trails we’d like to make – through the briars and all that. I was brother free this time though. He lay peacefully under a clump of dirt beneath the oak tree where our old tire swung. I glanced at the grave as I passed, as I always do.

I cracked sticks under my soles and snapped branches with my elbows, stumbling over logs. It felt like I was running out of time. I stubbed my toe on one of them big, jagged rocks that like to be proud and stand on its fellows. I yelped and fell to a pile of leaves, wrapped my fingers around the wound, and waited and winced until the tingling felt normal. During the time that I sat there, I got to thinking. I thought about Dad and what Mamaw had said about him. She said he was a bad bad man who left my mama to run away with some skank. She said he was evil and in-con-sid-er-ate. He didn’t give two licks about me. I imagined him as the devil – red scales, wings, horns, and all. I always ended up thinking about him more than Mama. I don’t remember them at all if I’m being honest. Apparently, Dad left when I was born, and Mom died about a year after that. Guess I wasn’t worth the trouble for either one.

Mawmaw talks about Mama like she was an angel. She had pretty, pale skin that sparkled with the heatwaves, soft brown hair that came down to her belly button, and big green eyes that liked to twinkle with the stars. That’s what I’m told anyway. I can’t really picture her all too well. I kind of just see a bright figure with a fuzzy face. But like I said, I don’t get to thinking about her like I do my dad. I guess the devil’s just more interesting than the angel.

While I was caught up in thought and tending to my toe. I felt something creeping on my shoulder. I don’t like crawly stuff, so any other time, I’d swat it away before thinking, but I couldn’t take my hands off my throbbing toe. I peeked at my shoulder and saw a black bug with wings. The wings were dark and edged with blue. It took me longer than it probably should have to realize it was a butterfly. I tried not to stare at it, thinking it would gouge one of my eyes out if I gave it the wrong look. She just sat there, though, swaying.

After the pain got tolerable, I put my hands against the dirt behind me as slowly as possible, trying not to disturb my little friend. She wasn’t that scary. I remembered reading something about butterflies, but I didn’t believe it. Mawmaw and I went to the doctor cause I stepped on a nail, and we were sitting in that waiting room for forever. In them God-awful chairs, I snatched one of the magazines that sit on those coffee tables. I flipped it open and saw the exact same butterfly that was on my shoulder on the page. It said it was Mississippi’s state butterfly. I guess I’m pretty lucky to see one. But, what I couldn’t imagine was that butterflies came from those little green worms on trees. How is someone gone say that they make a bundle of stuff and sit there for a while and then come out with wings? Yeah right.

In the middle of my recollection, the butterfly shuffled down my arm, seemed to look up at me, and took off. I watched her fly through the trees toward the bottom. Now disoriented, I had no real clue as to where I was initially running toward. After some chin scratching, I decided that it was where the butterfly went: Becker Bottom.

Becker Bottom is the runoff of the ole Tombigbee River that ran slap through Becker and out toward Aberdeen. I guess it’s called the bottom cause you got to go down some hills to get to it. And, there’s a boat ramp someways up the creek from where me and Mamaw stay. My brother and I used to run along the side of it every day. That is until the truancy officers came knocking. In some ways, the bottom got more magical since we had to play hooky to spend time in it. I thought going to school was bad, but not having him stand at the mailbox with me each morning kind of hurts a little extra. And, going down to the bottom just made me think about him more and more.

When I finally got to the river edge, I sat against a mound of dirt and looked across the cloudy mudwater. I saw a speck dart back and forth an inch above the ripples. After sitting a while, I figured that this was the spot that was thumping for me. My shoulders loosened and I breathed in that dense, humid mug. This felt right in some way. To be brutally honest, I think I made up that feeling just so I wouldn’t have to keep looking for something else. I really wanted to fish too.

I saw one of my poles that I left against a tree about a couple yards away, so I grabbed it, untangled the line, and got to casting. I was there about thirty minutes before I heard the hum of one of them nice boat motors. This wasn’t no trolley motor; this sounded like money. Lo and behold, an icy Grady White came barreling around a nook in the trees. Loud and proud, the thing roared as spikes of beige water shot out behind it. It was manned by a lone captain. He stood at the helm with a broad chest, the wind pulling the curtains on his receding hairline. I watched him from behind a rotten log. He zipped around, drifting like he was in a high-speed chase. He looked like me whenever I got a new toy.

He ended up settling down and started fishing in the main channel. I eased from my spot and got to fishing myself. After some time, I heard grunting near me. I knew that the man got close to my coast, so I snuck over to see what the fuss was about. He got his line stuck in a tree. I giggled seeing him leaning off the port, jerking at the mile-high branch. That big ole boat and that stainless rod, and the trees still hold the power. I guessed I was feeling froggy cause I walked out from my tree.

“Oh!” the man said upon seeing me. He nearly slipped over the gunwale. “Son, you bout scared me half to death!”

I jumped onto a rock next to the tree where his line was stuck. I grabbed the branch and swung myself up and over, releasing the hook.

“Thank you, son!” the man said before looking at me real hard. I got uncomfortable by his staring, so I started walking off, but he said, “Hey, kid! You live around here?”

“Yes sir.”

He looked around with a stern face, hands on his hips. I could tell he was looking at my ragged overalls, nappy hair, and dirt-clumped skin.

“You fish?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Why don’t you hop in and fish with me! I got an extra pole!”

While it did sound tempting, I said, “No sir. I can’t unless my mawmaw knows.”

He scratched his chin and got back to looking stern. He stared at my lack of shoes and then scanned up to my hair.

“Well,” he said. “How about you ask your mawmaw if you can fish with me tomorrow and I’ll be back here at the same time?”

I just nodded, not sure how to answer, and ran back to the house. I crept through the fragile screen door and found Mawmaw sitting in her recliner, watching her show. I asked her if I could go fishing with the man tomorrow, and she blew up on me. She start waving her crooked finger at my nose, cursing, saying I don’t need to talk to strangers. So, I thought long and hard about it in my room and decided to hell with it. I wanted to go fishing, so I was gone go.

After school, the next day, I rushed back to the bottom, hoping that Grady White was humming. I heard it about a mile away.

“Hey!” the man called out. “Hop in!”

We got to riding around, fishing, and checking trotlines. I was pretty nervous about scratching any of the white polish, but I felt better once a noticed a couple marks already on the inside. I saw new parts of the river I hadn’t ever seen before. He even let me use of one his fancy poles with them little colorful worms that move in the water for bait. I went fishing with him almost every day for about two weeks. I guess Mawmaw just thought I was in the backyard the whole time. The man would even bring sandwiches for me to eat while we was fishing. He gave me some spending money too, and I assume he made enough not to care about no job, since he’d always be at the bottom at the same time. I didn’t ask much about him though, I figured that’d make things weird. That didn’t stop him from asking me though.

He starts asking me about Mawmaw, my last name, where I was from, my mom and dad, where I went to school, and even my brother. I won’t lie, it was kind of strange how much he was asking, but I really didn’t mind. I was having the time of my life in that boat. He was very careful though before he asked anything. He was a thinking man. He’d scratch the scruff on his dimpled chin and look around once or twice before opening his mouth. I couldn’t quite read him, but as I said, it didn’t matter all too much to me.

One day, Mawmaw caught me coming through the woods with one of the man’s poles. She growled at me like a pit bull, snatched the pole from my hands, and shook it with fury. She yelled about me being gone so much, how she knew I’d been sneaking off to go fishing with that man, and how much trouble I was in. I was completely deflated. I was grounded for a whole week. The worst part was that I couldn’t give the pole back to him. He probably thought I done stole it and pawned it off. There went my chances of keeping that gig.

After that week, I carefully snuck off to the bottom once more, just to see if he’d still be there. He was motoring all right. I stood at the cove we always met at, but he didn’t come over. I could have sworn he saw me. It honestly felt like he was ignoring me. I sat there till I saw those water spikes shoot out from the Grady. He left without saying a word to me.

The next day, I sat in my lawn chair at the house, thinking about the man and how nice he was to me. I thought about how I couldn’t stand my mawmaw for making me stay at home. Now I look like a criminal – like a thief. Ain’t nothing worse than a thief. Right then and there, something came swooping down and landed on my hand. It was the same blue-tinted butterfly I done seen weeks ago. She looked me square in the eyes, turned to the wide open screen door, and flew right into the house. I got up and chased her, eventually running into the living room, where Mawmaw stood at the door, talking to someone.

I jumped back and looked through the blinds of a window around the corner. There were a couple men with badges and guns posted up with their sunglasses and big chests. Behind them was the man I’d been fishing with. I rushed back to the living room to eavesdrop.

“That is my son and you’re holding him here against his will!”

“You don’t have any right to be comin’ here thinkin’ I owe you nothing!”

“Ma’am, you have unlawfully taken custody.”

“What law? To hell with your laws!”

“Ma’am, if you resist this, you will be under arrest.”

Mawmaw slapped one of the officers upside the head, which ended up putting her in handcuffs facedown in the mud. I ran out to see if she was okay, but the other big man put a hand over my chest. He said everything was gone be alright. Once they got her up and in the flashing car, the fishing man came up to me and said some words I’ll never forget.

“Hey, son.”

Have you ever gone to church and asked forgiveness for your sins, only to return home and continue your sinful behavior? Guess what... you're not alone. Millions of Christians and I have fallen victim to this behavior, asking ourselves, "Why? Why can't I just keep my promises to myself and God? Why can't I just be a good Christian?"

First, you are a good Christian. If you are saved by Jesus Christ and continue to care deeply about your actions, you are a good Christian. Second, this relapse of sin is not subject to only you. As I said, millions are dealing with this same struggle.

So, then arises the question: How can I bridge the gap between church and my daily life? I have 4 tips to counteract the sinful relapse and ultimately bridge the gap.

Start with each morning. Download a Bible app, purchase a devotion book, or simply open your Bible to a random page as soon as the sun breaks through your window. Make a commitment and effort to look at at least one devotion every day. You can start slow, it can be every other day or every week. However, I would not recommend going later than this, seeing how easy it is to forget things after a week.

Read the devotion. Read it slowly. Take your time, and soak in every word. Use this time as a meditation. Making this a routine will give you one chance every day to start strong and grow a bit closer to God. After so long, you will start seeing opportunities arise throughout your day to put His word into action. That leads me to my next point.

The saying, "What would Jesus do?" is not just a fun phrase. It has truth and meaning behind it.

When reading about Jesus, we see him reference scripture and God's word. Of course, he spoke from his own conscience, but his knowledge was based on the word of God. Although he was divine, he was also human. He was a human who had to study the scripture in order to walk the way of the Lord.

You too must follow in his footsteps. As you read your daily devotions, think about how you could apply them to your everyday duties. If the scripture says, "Be kind, and gentle," perhaps you can make a friend or stranger smile when they seem upset.

Walk the path of Jesus and be kind to others, forgive others, stand up for others, stand up for yourself, lead people back to God, and have undying faith that everything will turn out just fine.

More often than not, when someone reverts back to their sinful ways, they are alone. They sit amongst their own thoughts and anxiety, trying to fight the battle that they cannot win by themselves. Satan's touch is all around us. He owns this world of ours. But, he only owns your soul if you let him. And, that is his main goal. He wants to push your body and mind to the breaking point so that you avert your eyes from the sky and look down at him.

Escape the devil's tactics. Talk to other people. They do not have to be Christians, but it is definitely easier to talk to someone who knows what you are going through. By communicating and exchanging our problems with one another, we transfer a slight amount of the load that weighs so heavily on our shoulders.

Talk about God and how giving he truly is. Talk about the light at the end of the tunnel. Talk about how good it feels to be getting better. Talk about how good it feels to walk with Christ.

The common perception of prayer includes rigid and big words, on our knees, hands clasped, but this does not have to be you. This style of prayer is extremely difficult to practice every day because it takes a lot of effort. Satan will make the effort seem insurmountable, eventually making you avoid praying altogether.

Pray unconventionally. Pray as if you are talking with a friend. Pray in the car, on a run, in class, in your bed. Pray everywhere. You do not have to do anything else. God does not love you any less because you keep your eyes open or your hands apart.

I like to make a daily habit of thanking him for what he has done for me, asking for forgiveness for my past sins, and requesting the strength to overcome this world. I can pray that anywhere and everywhere in any way.

Continue to pray. Continue to talk. Continue to act. Continue to read. Then, you will be able to bridge the gap.

The overwhelming smell of freshly cut grass and a musty locker room made my senses delude to the excitement of finally playing tackle football. The initiation of the seventh-grade summer workouts was merciless, as exaggerated by a 12-year-old kid. The struggle to lift barbells barely over my body weight, the 5 laps around the crooked fence outlining the middle school field first thing every morning, and the heat that girdled the outskirts of every cone drill all coalesced into an extremely unforgivable predicament. But, I thought I dealt with the aching muscles and occasional expulsion of my breakfast as well as I could have. That is until I felt a rather odd flutter inside my chest. It was a strange beating of mixing patterns. It was my heartbeat, but it was strange. I thought nothing of it, as I was brimming with adrenaline at the time. After a few more instances, however, I decided it would be best to inform my father. I did so, and he did not seem too distressed, largely because he never witnessed what happened when my heart would palpitate. He never really understood because I never knew what to tell him. I continued playing sports and being as normal as a kid could be until it happened once more, not unusually, but this time it lasted far longer than it had at any time prior. It forced my legs to crash amongst the itchy grass and allow me only a singular moment to recover and catch my breath. My dad—who finally was seeing what I had been dealing with --and I concluded that it would be in our best favor to tell my mother about what had been happening. She was rightly concerned when confronted with the issues, but she remained calm and researched everything about the subject of heart palpitations and irregular beatings. She consulted her doctor friends, and she oversaw my actions.

Life after that remained normal, as normal as a flutter every other week was. From that point on for about three years, I dealt with the damage as everyday impeded-- I being mostly unbothered. It was not until the end of my sophomore year that I realized the sheer mass of the mental toll that was burdening me behind the foreground. My sophomore spring game came as fast as one of my beatings and was in every frame of focus that I held grasp of. I was on an unknown sunken in the ground field playing a mismatched-looking team I had never played against, but my frantic zeal was oddly sufficient to keep my mind from wavering. I played the first half as well as I could have. I never missed my assignment during the play; I sensed the feeling that I was finally becoming comfortable in my position and the sport.

On one fateful play, I pushed through the wall of the team’s “certified big guys” trying desperately to protect their star. I then tackled the opposing team's quarterback with an overwhelming thud paired with two grunts; on impact, I knew what had happened. My heart started racing, fluttering, trembling, vibrating at immense speed. As I looked down at my shoulder pads, I could see my chest beating outwardly through them in a sort of cartoon fashion. I raised my head to the stands and motioned my hand on top of my chest in a beating manner. My dad was always on the lookout, so he promptly saw this and came down in an instant. He already knew. We made our way to a conveniently positioned ambulance that was parked on the side of the caved-in field and told the EMTs my problem. They scurried around and tried to keep my pulse down for roughly 20 minutes, but nothing worked as my pulse remained at 269 bpm (beats per minute). They were more distressed than I, as they didn’t want to mess this moment up. Ice, breathing exercises, applied pressure, they tried it all. It was not until the team trainer said that we needed to go to the hospital when it suddenly ceased to beat at all; though, it steadily started back up and returned to the average 80 bpm for resting.

Much trauma is sudden and apparent in its initial influence on a person's livelihood, but mine was lethargic and concealed in the depths of my mind, ever-growing. The problem with the invisibility of my pain is the fact that it was voluntary. I did not relish the opportunity to consider the pain caused or the future ramifications. It seemed stupid, insignificant. Why should I contemplate? I should be moving on-- to better conditions-- to a better view. This is, in a way, how I dealt with all my struggles; I still do in some cases. The art of ignorance was my signature mastery. For most of my life, this skill was beneficial when confronted with trivial matters (trivial when compared to my true issue) but those matters were only those of mere inconvenience; they were also not joined to me. They were not joined in the same way as my heart, for my heart has always been with me and will always be; so, when the true trauma is locked within the heart, it is—in a way-- inescapable. That is my trauma: my heart condition. And, trauma works funnily. It may disappear. It may resurface. It may continue.

Surgery or medicine was inevitable, and I chose surgery-- out of the idea of a speedy recovery—to be back on the field; however, my choice was irrelevant as the procedure failed, but what it did not fail in was giving me false hope. After I began taking medicine, I slowly worked my way back into sports. I kept playing football, I kept running track, and I kept living as normal a life as I could. I finished my senior year of football with one of the best seasons our school has had in over 5 years (having an odd COVID-related 9-2 record). I became supremely confident in my body's ability to act normally, to be silent. But in my escapades towards normality, I quickly slipped on the mountain trail and fell to the base where I met with an old pal.

At a track meet in April of 2021, I was running a 110-meter hurdle race when I felt the beating. I finished the race only by the grace of God. I walked back to the line after finishing and attempted to stand up straight and look good next to my competitors. The only problem was that I could not see my competitors. I could not see the crowd or the track before me. I could not hear the cheers or boos. I was completely shellshocked. Seas of white clouded my eyes, and white noise collapsed upon my eardrums. The only sense I had was my touch. I felt my dad grab my arm and take me to the side of the field. I told him what was happening, and he got the trainer. They didn't understand what was happening since they had no previous experience with my conditions. We rushed back home, which was 45 minutes away. We simply expected the ordeal to cease after some time as it had always done. It never quit. We rushed to the emergency room, and they tried everything. Drugs, medicine, therapy. None of it worked. They had to lodge the biggest IVs they had into both of my arms so as to not blow-up my veins from all the doses. They shot a blood thinner into my stomach that forced my body to crunch in on itself, stinging like a thousand hornets. A special drug ran through my veins down to my toes and back to my eyebrows, tightening my entire being, making breathing a chore. Every cord known to man connected me to every machine a hospital could give. Nothing. It kept pounding. The doctor came into my room and told me, “We may have to shock you.” I admit, I was taken back, but I trusted their methods.

Nonetheless, they felt more confident sending me to a different hospital with more resources, so they sent me 30 minutes away in an ambulance. They did end up shocking me to attempt to reset my heartbeat. After, when I looked at the heart monitor, I saw a whopping 50 bpm. I had never seen it that low. The procedure thankfully worked after (what I soon found out to be) 6 grueling hours of an unwavering 190 bpm heart rate. Still, they felt that another surgery was mandatory, for my condition had now turned into something far deadlier than my previous two, especially when unchecked in younger people. Consequently, I stayed overnight with my father and went under surgery the next day. The doctor said it was a success, but the recovery will be lengthy. Although the process was grueling, I greeted it warmly, and I complained little. I joked with the nurses and made some of them cry because I was leaving. I sang, laughed, and smiled. I believe this is partly because I knew I would be fine eventually—partly because I never wanted to accept that it happened. I was not planning to participate in any more sports or anything too physically demanding, so I was hopeful.

My life since then has changed. I began to recognize the mental toll that all these experiences had on my being. I attempted to accept them as the past and a new life was just idling to begin. But my blood continues to pump oddly. I have occasional palpitations. Truthfully, I believe my body will never be normal. I will never have the body I aspire to have. I will always have this gridlock between my body and mind. Tears would flow, body would spasm, thoughts would race, acceptance would be resisted. Self-pity engulfed me; however, I left it all on the table for my girlfriend, who had held my side throughout this all. I told her how scared I was that my heart would never be fixed. She said, "So, what if it doesn't?"

My heart was never a choice, it was always a burden: a burden that allows me to write this essay. The balance of problems and solutions is the key to every action, decision, or concept-- the key to life. Nothing will ever be fully solved; neither will there be more problems than possible to handle. Our lives should not be wasted being enveloped in mysteries we are not meant to solve. Our lives as they pertain to this very moment are predicated upon the involvement we have in them, but if that involvement overtakes our souls, then our souls are lost to the world, trapped within society, anxiety, stress, confusion, and fear. Our trauma teaches us to trust in ourselves and the forces which we are not able to see; otherwise, a long time of growth can be regressed and dwindled by the worries of the world.

My father passed when I was young—very young. I barely recall what the house was like with him there; because I didn’t know life with him, life without him was just... regular. I have very few memories of my dad, but those few centered around one thing: crossword puzzles. If he got bored, he’d do a crossword puzzle. He’d do it in doctor’s offices, hotel lobbies, funerals—it didn’t matter. The last image I have of him is his slender frame sitting on his favorite leather recliner, legs crossed, a puzzle in his lap, and glasses properly propped on his roman nose. It’s been years since he passed, and I still wonder what happened. Mom says he got lost on a hiking trip, but police never showed up to question us about his disappearance. While pondering this, I situated in Dad’s recliner. I picked up one of the nearby puzzles and attempted to solve it. As I got one line correct, I’d get the next. I'd finished before I realized it. I looked down and caught something strange: four words traveled in a diagonal line. When I read them, a pit seared into my core. “Don’t—Trust—Your—Mother.”

Golden coast

Golden wave

Golden ghost

Golden grave

Feet soaked in a perpetual tide

Skin creased by seared sand

Overlapping repetition lies in both

Just like my thoughts: a subconscious undergrowth

Losing myself in the breeze is no easy task

I must focus to lose focus

And gain a death mask

Molded from what I once was

Now boundless on the beach

My soul skips and re-routes

For myself, I must teach

Teacher and student

Being one and the same

Do it enough

And it becomes a sort of game

But then, where does truth lie?

Within myself or the briny deep?

Shouldn’t it arrive from something immaterial

Something ethereal

Do I waste my time?

Pursuing unseen wonders

Truly living in the sublime

Won’t I find myself?

This is what they all say

Where even am I amongst this bay?

But I have a feeling

It must be in the deep

Oh…

Perhaps I was just asleep

The man’s toes curled over the edge of the 7-story building

Another poking behind him

His palms were spread

Fingers stretching the plains

The stars

It all

Once again

One belted for the catch

One cheered for the fall

The others viewed in a sublime horror

Many did not know him

Yet they felt him

They felt the gravity

Overcome by an immense pressure

Yet to set in was the lingering reality

His neck open to the atmosphere

His body quivering, hands still

His eyelids bolted

‘Shall this truly be real!’

The woman reached to him

In vain was the attempt to prevent destiny

He was accepted into the void

Cast by the hand of the mob

With a push,

He tumbled

His body,

Crumpled

Pavement shattered bones

Torn ripen flesh

Gaudy lights

Displayed the rest

Let not his descent

Equal a mere consequence

For his sacrifice is unrivaled

Shall the witnesses be discipled

Wishful thinking gruesome

Those who declare it

Be alone then

Pass and forget the others

Rude awakenings in stored

The one who declared it

Do not be blind

Among shadows is cast light

For without it, shadows have nothing to fight

Let them crawl and grasp your ankle

Be strong in your armor

Those who stand and stride

Power is not you

Neither is it within you or without

It is nowhere

But know that it is close

Unity waits

Unless you prefer surprises

Broken bark

Crimson veins

Jet black creatures

Roam the plains

Bounding hills

A gravel pathway

Lifeless tree limbs

As bright as a summer day

The forces of the woods

Fight to regain control

Only to be met

With machinery that rolls

A perfectly balanced warfront

That is my land

Roads vary

Much like lives

Flexuous paths

Conflicting directions

Surfaces bend

Cracks crinkle

I may not know your history

Yet I know the road

Its random uniformity is obvious

From the people who paved it

To the year it was commissioned

Who paid for it

But, far from the same

As I bound these mounds

Creep over these railroad tracks

And avoid these indentions

As I ride the edge

In almost separate dimensions

I see you

I witness your frown

I gawk at your smile

Yet I do not know you

Then you are gone by a mile

All within a blink

Never seen again

On this lonely parkway

Lord knows where you have been

Are you talking?

Or are you singing?

If it is the former,

Whose ears are listening?

You seem so upset at times

Although the song could be emotional

Does it reach a forgotten place?

If so, from what angle?

I’ve noticed something on your face.

Is it the long drive that permits your thoughts?

Why do they not appear elsewhere?

Is it mere boredom that provokes you?

Or perhaps it’s inevitable

Therefore, you save it for the road and the many few.

Are your words addressed?

Directed at the driver?

Or the casual doe spotlighted by your fog lights?

Or are they for me?

You probably never knew I saw

You probably never knew I existed

Yet, I saw

I felt your words

Even through that illegal tint

I resonated.

I too, think too much

Maybe you don’t

But from your expression

And your choice of this road

You do.

You don’t speed

You can’t speed

The asphalt is hypnotizing

Your body detaches

Allowing your mind to feed.

The evening is intoxicating

Don’t roll down your window

Your body has been waiting

Cage yourself in that leather

Situate

Think

This way

You won’t be able to blink

Pay attention to the road

Let your mind not deter

But align

Turn your ride into a blur

Then, you can succeed

Maybe it was a good song

I don’t know your soul

Yet, I can only imagine

Dodging these potholes.