Thursday, May 30, 2013

Washington Square

Friday, May 31, 2013

It is the same place – only different – to which I come each time this thing takes me, the spray of wet from the elevated gush of a found that will call to me long after I have gone to the grave, Garibaldi’s stone face glaring at me across the circle, not just over distance I can traverse with a few stiff strides, but across generations, from the grave of my great great grandfather who fought side by side with him that set his people free the way Washington did ours, and for some reason I do not know or understand, links me to a past I know only from family lore; this place a face of a time in my life when I needed a friend when no other might be found, where I could sit and think and devise a solution other places seemed incapable of inspiring, my life journey circling this circle in an endless spin, a roulette wheel upon which no fame or fortune is made, just some inner treasure I can’t cash in any bank, an answer that is never really an answer, a voiced that makes no sound yet I can hear.

This is the saddest place on earth, the core of my being and the heart where all the hearts I ever knew beat as one, and from them, out of this flood of pain some something important, a fire that I need to keep me alive, so blistering it eats me up from the inside so that this shell of agony, this ache I always feel when I seek this place burns away from me and I can leave renewed, if not always completely enlightened.

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