Evening Thread

You know. I have had a lot of hard experiences. It hurts. I am not alone. No. Not one bit. The rules of the game is connection. Both pain and agony. There is compassion. I am human.

We are all human. And that pain. Please don’t leave it alone. Find the light in each other. Look up soul, for I am not alone. Peace, peace. The moment I see the tapestry. Generations of pain. Passed unto me.

Can I stop it? Maybe a little. Maybe I can revert some traditions. Although I am not alone. We are part of this race. Step out from and leave the sea. Settle down the mucky lanes. Brush out the sand. Oil in the sea. I definitely can see.

Symbols are more than just words. They are in us. The represents our thoughts. They write our actions. Those traditions written unto itself. A self repeating prophecy. History taken a turn. My future sort of written down.

I am not alone. 

You and I must fight that cold arm. That viper. The draconic fight. Those dragons are ethereal. They still spit venom. Their bite is fate. Inside the belly is where I transform. Take that clarity and carve it out. The beast is vulnerable when you are inside. They have no defense when you call it by name. Walk away. Records may be immutable, but your world is infinite. Write book three. Isn’t book three always the odd one? Where adolescence meets revealed history? So many stories print book three. A pattern. Numbers are symbols as well. Write another record and staple it together. So all came to pass. And I heard. I saw. Then experienced. A spread.

I am not alone. Connected history look at me. Look at the breathing mist. Your heart in there. Somewhere. Go find it. Ancestors I feel your pain. For your pain is my pain. Your history my birthright. My changes a legacy. Even if the legacy is quiet, I will make the changes. So the clock may pass different timezones. And the songs sing redemption of the original trauma. A parent. Somewhere back then. Maybe a cousin. Someone suffered. The agony turned sour. And that bitterness latched onto the next. So it began. So it continued. 

I stand here.

History look at me. I read you. The tapestry is unraveling. I will not ignore. Once upon a time and down to me. I am part of the story. My life a symbol upon its pages. And I stare, as history watches me. Waiting. Holding its breath. Family I will take care. Do the best I can be. For I wait as eternity comes upon me. Ancestors all there. We yearn. We cry. As history speaks. The pain trapping the history. Records.

Switch. Swirl. Round and round. Inverse and change. Dive into the currents. Through the forest down to time. I pull out the writings. Records cry out. We failed. Weight inside this world too great. Son. Distant child. We cry for you. Yearn for your success. Do not forget your parents and fight for your posterity. Once it’s done. Your time gone. The history moves on. Our child. Our hailing bright. Dawning thread. Fight for our legacy. Bring it on. Bring it to your own breathing. For you are our child. Our son.

For my family hails from Ghana. It moved from Asia. Finland in recent memory. Germany, Australia and United Kingdom. My line among America. They came in the Mayflower. Sweden and Dutch. France. I did not forget you. This world is more connected than people cannot realize. The threads so potent it claims all.

Every action will meet time. Then it will spread out. The legacy of the weak bend all knees. Once gone it presses down. Generations will view you as giants. Such influence. Such potent choices. Ripples by dropping feet. Skin barely touches the water. A blink before the foot drops.

Anger only shows anger. Bitterness takes away strength. We all must taste that. My hope is my family. I think of past, present and future. It will all turn around. The bitterness transformed. The hurt. The weight. It will not end here. I will take the best steps I can. I will have faith.

Dynasties are long. Chapters must end. Eternity has rounds. It has seasons. It provides hope of a better life. Reach forth. The effort is fruitful. Sweet to scent. The eventual foreshadow by blossoming spring. Pushes back winter bite. 

Bakers dozen is not too long. Thirteen is not wrong. Give your best. Even if you are different than those you see.

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