|Image source: NASA.gov|
“Yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream.” - Kahlil Gibran
On the hush of one indigo twilight, some thirty-six years ago, after perhaps one drink too far, one ill-advised dime bag, or maybe one beating too many, Mom got fed-up and stabbed Dad in his back, right in front of me. I’m not leaning on colorful metaphor; that literally happened. Look for poetry here and you'll find nothing but the taste of copper and the sound of a small child weeping. I suppose we all have defining moments. At age six, this moment ushered in the era of my new normal, an unending twilight.
Dad survived, though the nuclear family changed molecularly, and I fundamentally. Separation lowered us from lower-middle to poverty. Though I didn’t blame myself, my already introverted nature imploded. I began to resign myself to losing, shrugging through overcast existence, impervious to sunlight caressing my face. Normal became my bedrocked-faith eroding, sliding seaward. Normal was coming to terms with the fact that losing is inevitable. In an infinite amount of trajectories, my role in this reality was to fall.
The twilight of normal never fully abates, churning indigo waves, whispering that I'm of the wretched; of abhorrent stock who deserves to fall and slide into the unmarked crevice of nothing. It often compels me to retreat to my bed, shrinking beneath the covers, staring into nothing, envious of its definition. For all my education and life-experiences, it is astounding how often I find myself reduced to that helpless child, weeping in indigo twilight, where I can’t be seen.
Earth turns toward shadows
Veiling light, muting whispers
Hugging its secrets
Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday 2.
If you frequent this blog, you probably noticed I haven’t been around for a while. I’d like to say that I’m back, but I’ve been gripped by depression and well, I guess that’s that. I’ll try to write more, but no promises.
This Kahlil Gibran prompt seemed pretty cool though. I greatly enjoyed reading his uplifting book The Prophet, and so I guess I felt compelled to poke around my head and examine parts of me that I don’t always like to see the light of day.
Apparently, I’ve been struggling with depression since I was six years old. Huh. All this time I thought I was just born a grumpy old man. Who knew?
(Sorry for being a buzzkill.)