sometimes I forget

Sometimes I forget about rain. And then it rains. Like right now. It’s currently raining. A soft rain. Not associated with a storm. It rarely rained in my hometown. So all those years, growing up, I never became familiar with rain. It was always a luxury. A special treat. No one owned an umbrella. When it rained, you wanted to get wet. The desert. I grew up in the desert and we had sprinkler systems and canals and elaborate irrigation systems to keep the crops growing. Annual rainfall equals 3.36 inches. That’s hardly a drop compared to my current residence. I’ve never grown accustomed to it. Never completely accustomed to a rainy day. Which is perhaps why I feel the way I do. Today.

Sometimes I forget I love to write. That I have to write. Or else I’ll implode. I write on random pieces of paper and in multiple journals. Sometimes typing sometimes longhand. Always for me, first. Then maybe for others. Depending. Words. Words are powerful especially when written down. Spoken, sure. But I’m not the most articulate. And I’d rather read than listen. When I come across a line. A song lyric. Something which makes me pause and reread then reread again. I know it’s a gift. Writing and reading and recording the exact feeling I feel.

Obligation is such a complex rendering of discontent.

I wrote the above sometime last October. Not sure the exact date. There’s more on the page but this is the line that stands out today. So I mention it.

Sometimes I forget. What it’s like to be truly free. I forget what I want. Most of all. Because I allow other objects to block even the shadows. Freedom is what we fight for. Correct? All of us, someway or another. Yesterday was Independence Day and we are reminded of those who fought. But we all do, don’t we? In our own minds. Freedom to experience the adventure we believe will be ours. If only. The mind is a battlefield. Or is it love? Or simply life? That’s the battlefield.

Sometimes I forget I am not who I once was. Yet I am who I was at the beginning. When I started walking down the road. I have reappeared. Resurfaced. Along the way I believed lies. Now I believe the truth.

Sometimes I forget that those who know us best often offer us the best. A phone call with my daughter. Reminding me of who I am. What I am. What I deserve. And it’s not the ordinary yet it is the sublime. My children recount to me my true worth, rhyme and reason. That I am not obliged. To anyone. I am free. Freedom is revelation. If freedom doesn’t reveal something new. Then you’re simply not free. To feel or live or be. Refer to the above regarding obligation.

Sometimes I forget the little signs I look for in the day mean nothing. Simple coincidences. Songs on the radio because if you listen long enough to that station, you’re gonna hear that song. Yet sometimes I forget without the signs, the reminders. I am not much good at all. I am dull and listless. And without imagination.

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Sometimes I forget hope is built on nothing. But when I look around, I see something. Which could mean it’s too late for hope. Or that nothing is about to come. Because nothing has visited a few times before.

 

 

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