Just when all of life looks like a spark, a game mastered ... gosh, how it hurts when fate throws a graceful, curving pitch that straightens and comes dead straight for the head. One ducks and crumples in panic into the dust and then rises in indignation and embarrassment, steaming off the field as if miracle trajectories are personal.
Physics suck.
Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. You just never know in life, now do you, and when things get really bad do you stand on your feet or do you sway a bit ... and if you do either of these things, it doesn’t mark you for a gentle decline every time, now does it?
And Gravity sucks, too.
We all fall down, down we all fall, fall we all down, all we fall down and the rising is so bittersweet, so harvested in fettered pain and the smiles we paste on to show that, hey, I’m good, I’m good ... wave to the crowd and go inside to cry. How hard it all is.
So much wasted currency and time wrenching no-good potions out of poor imitation bottles of cure. Science proves most disappointing for stopping the clock, sister.
And hey, Sister, where are you when I need you the most?
Always there is family hiding from their oddest parts, to pretend the histories away into a never land, the worst places to keep the ill-begotten secrets in carved mahogany sideboards, in musty drawers with the ugly china plates and bent silver spoons ...
There is always room at the inn.
Feeling seasons creeping in and waiting with tapping feet for the better, for the good news coming any minute now, we tarry for no better reason than to delay a settling for the death of our best selves. Like a frantic horse, the tearing of a passion’s harness and whipping and lashing against that sheath of mediocrity, I do not want him, mama, that dreaming man, a perfect cornucopia of just what I need.
Guess it ain’t gonna happen, dude.
And then all those places that wait for your arrival, those mosques and rainforests, those temples framed in sunsets that lie like fog in a mind that yearns to kneel on damp stone and pray. Those long flights into a love that could never be, wrinkled and sleepy from cramped transportation, a bleary cab ride into the heart of all that could finally tell you what you’ve needed to hear your entire life.
If you could find that perfect escape, how easy it all could be.
A perfect pitching game, a triangle of things that happened correctly, beyond gravity, beyond forced remembrance, coming back to home plate and the realization that in your absence, the world balanced itself out of chaos into order and a wedding feast was organized among the bases just to celebrate the symmetry of it all.
Simply a game after all, how does it feel?
