A brisk walk through a morbid museum; A sanctuary of things lost, love shatters hearts on the floor broken and besides themselves, fretting in a grey mist of constant tears and sorrow. There is a quickening of heartbeats and thumping internally, blood boiling and pounding like rabbit’s foot against a particularly percussive forest floor. Sweet tea in an aluminum can promises empty dreams of 90s nostalgia, because in a way sugar is a drug, complete with a tolerance and the mere fact that nothing will ever taste as good as the first time you tried it. It is then we are lead out Plato’s cave, awakened. But we can only come out once. There are many other caves, all of which we can come out to awareness and understanding, but only once will be that one true time. I am imagining a vast desert, ominous and empty, all with caves like huts across the barren wasteland. And what looks odd to us from this panning longshot is unbeknownst and ignorant to the dwellers inside. They are none the wiser and they remain in complacent darkness, accepting that yes, this is life and this is fine.

On a cool fall day I can walk as briskly as I want down local town park path without running the risk of profusely sweating. The fall is the time where I can most be myself. Where I’m not critically self-conscious to no end. I try to not get desensitized to the leaves changing, their beautiful colors waving as they die, sleep once more to withstand winter. Where in winter wind whips on all sides; It is chilling and frigid and frightening. The smell of the cool air, however, is incredible intoxicating and cannot be replicated on any holodeck or VR or candle. That smell of snow. A mild smokiness pervades in my memory, perhaps of something in Bloomfield having lit their fireplace to make even the most frozen outside occasions seem cozy.

Wind moves along my sides as I determinedly stride across to my destination. The faster I go, the breezier it feels. An untied shoe lace could be a catastrophic event, but I am undeterred. I am careful until I’m not. And when I’m not, I will hang my head with the shame of Catholic guilt and internally punish myself with a miserable dialogue before I become insensitive and desensitized to it. It’s something hard to break out of old cycles that are seemingly made of teflon and thick plastic. Like I’m helpless in a hamster wheel of my own creation.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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