I am not what you think I am.
I am not, never was-what anyone thought.
Though my ‘presentation’ may beg to differ.
When the jarring sound of your ever predictable internal clock alerts a new day has arrived, tomorrow, the day after, decades forward; you might ponder, however brief that fleeting thought.
But you won’t entertain the idea that you were wrong.
None of you will.
I will continue to do me, whatever that means. I will continue to, pound the pavement, in search of a soft place to land, heels cracked and knuckles raw; heart wailing.
Obstacles abound, but witted with perseverance.
Weathering the storm-breast stroke by breast stroke.
I will, refuse to take the leveled path-switch directions, carve my own.
Take a breath, and keep treading. I can feel the shore line.
I remember that one time that you showed up, gleaming smile in tow, asking for a favor; a sympathetic ear. I was all too willing to listen. Even though the story never changed. It was always the same gut-wrenching tale. Filled with slights you wrestled with, to no avail.
As I always surrendered to.
New tune? New beat?
Same old predictable rhythm and rhyme. That is not to imply that this is your fault. You have always been the instrument, the rest, composers.
Though I doubt that repeated clarity on the matter has purpose at this point, in our lives.
Once the ‘masses’ got a hold of you, there was simply no feasible way out. None.
Not for you.
I know this, like the oasis of my time tainted lines-that map my body from head to toe, memoirs of where I’ve been.
Like the abyss of my-jaded infused-rant worthy journal.
What good did that do us? The beauty that has always surrounded us, too blind to see, to, come up for air.
That, is you.
But it isn’t me.
Whether we be a ‘we’ or not.
I know that I promised us that I’d never leave your side. As your side is as much mine, transparently intertwined. But I have things I must do, and the weight of you has been too much to bare.
Sure, it may sound exquisitely callous.
But it is just a chapter in our history.
A repetitive passage that refuses to offer a satisfying conclusion. We are stuck in a rising action that never climaxes.
You understand, don’t you?
I have to keep swimming.
I have to keep breaking ground.
It doesn’t matter where I end up, I simply cannot swim for the both of us anymore. Not through the manicured path that we unintentionally wound up on.
The landscape is unforgiving, majestic as it may be.
With this, I have gifted you mute. I am free to be one me, sound of reasoning.
I can taste the shoreline.
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