Some of you may recognize it from a past year, say, perhaps, 2017, but the words still hold true. If not truer still.
As 2018 draws to its inexorable denouement, dear reader, I leave you with this…
Thank you for having been here with me. In this space. My space. But not Myspace. In my small little corner of the web, inspired by Charlotte, but wholly by me. A budding wordonist practicing wordonism, deriving simple pleasures from letters affixed just so beside each other.
Thank you for having read those very words that I sometimes struggled to put down. That came out jumbled from my brain, defying the synaptic gymnastics that worked against their liberation. The resistance within.
For consuming the words that I used to try to give you an honest, forthright glimpse into my uncurated life. Unfettered. My real life. My simple life. Basically, my real simple life.
The words that I wrote for the voices in my head. For the voices in my bed. The soft, quiet ones. The loud, brash ones. Those that were stoic. Those that were staid. The ones that cajoled, and creeped, and cackled at all hours. Keeping me awake. Keeping me asleep. Simply keeping me. A kept man.
These words of mine that belie the inglorious battles I have faced this past year. And years before then. Big and small. Mountains and molehills. With one commonality. They are always epic in nature. Against nature. Au natural. Just like the way I sleep.
Battles against my own inner daemons. Even the fancy ones with the extra a. The ones I know we all have. That we are sometimes too afraid to share. Too afraid to give voice, and with that voice, life and power.
We are the same, dear reader, you and I.
Ashamed of the judgements, the hushed whispers in the shadows, in the dark. Or worse, in the light. That harsh white light that washes out my smoove chocolate skin tone. Muting me. Silencing me. While putting me in the spot light. The pointing and laughing, which we all know are sometimes acceptable independently, rarely acceptable together, and never together in the bedroom.
And the memories of 2017, not repeated in 2018, of losing inches. And that was just after losing 4 inches. Which doesn’t seem like much, but apparently people notice. People talk. People can be so cruel. Apparently every inch matters. See if I decide to cut my hair ever again…and I didn’t this year.
Then there are the legendary battles against the equally terrifying external daemons, both big and small, and sometimes smaller, like that time on Halloween, when we should all be so fortunate to amass great fortune in free candy…I would have won too, and been richer in those little Snickers and Mars bars, if that little fucker hadn’t called his mom over to save him…
In any case, the details don’t matter.
Isn’t that what we’ve learned again this year? Along with the past few years? That facts aren’t important? That we can make them up along the way, or ignore the truth as we see fit? Bending it to our will as a farrier forges the golden horseshoes for that lucky horse.
But what does matter is you. All that matters is you. You matter. And not just because you’re made up of atoms and molecules, or electrons, neutrons, and protons. It’s much deeper than that.
You being there for me. Sharing your time. Your precious time. The time you’ll never get back. And your precious attention. Of which I want it all. Every last bit. My Precious.
And I don’t know if I can express my gratitude clearly or plainly in a way that you’d understand how much it means to me. How much you mean to me.
Every one of you. Especially you.
That we were given this chance to connect. To intertwine our lives and beings. Gorilla glued in place. To bondage in such a way that we couldn’t escape those precious moments that tied us together as we shared my words, my lessons, and sometimes my pictures in 2018.
Here’s to you and yours. And now ours.
I raise a toast. Slightly burnt, but generously coated in hypoallergenic nut butter to conceal the faint essence of stroke so as not to alarm you.
To our continued adventures. You and me.
To always learning lessons from life, loves, and libations.
Photo by Steven VanDesande Jr on Unsplash
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