a beggar and a basket of flowers

I told a friend the other day that I fear Heaven.

One of the most honest things that I've ever said.
Hated admitting it, hated knowing that it's true.

When I can't sleep at night,
I stand outside in the cold and resume my relationship with the night sky.

I wanted to forge ahead,
Start a new life.
Delve into those deepest, darkest corners.
Try to understand why I didn't feel good enough for myself.

Make that last cup of coffee.
Know you shouldn't, but
You know sleep's not coming either.
Might as well make the most of it.
Stand in the cold, and watch what's left of your breath compete with the steam from a little warm cup.

Wanted to gain some understanding as to how I really tick,
So that when I made my Grand entrance back into the world
I would be made of happy things, Goodness,
And I would be able to provide warmth and light around me.
Make a change for the better.

This is why I left.

A beautiful Fall night. It's very late.
Stars shining overhead in that dark blue that borders on black.
So quiet and still.
Peaceful,
Except for the voices screaming at the absurdities in my own head.

It's in these moments that I worry that maybe the Egyptians were right about the doors to the afterlife.
When it is my time to say goodbye, will my soul be weighed and found wanting?

What if I can't let go?
What if I don't want to...

What happens if I am let into Heaven by mistake.

Maybe I just want a little space somewhere to catch up with those I so desperately miss.
I promise you won't know I'm here.
I'll be quiet.
Please let me stay a little while,
Then I'll go.

Instead, maybe I'll decide to march up to those glittering gates, and
start a bloody war based on all of the things I refuse to accept, and perhaps demand some damned answers while I'm at it.
Will I use all of the same false bravado I did in life?
Will they see through it?

What happens if I'm asked what I think I'm really worth.

I think there might be a point where you can go too far inside.

Don't forget to leave a light on behind you.

If you're not careful, those persistent little demons will find you,
Creep in so close, claws around your throat, whisper the little things that start to make sense.

Personal demons don't care about zip codes, and
Their moving costs are cheap.
They'll find you.

A lovely couple came to my performance the other night.
They live in another city, came to see me here.
Let me know this with stars in their eyes and music on their minds.

At the end of the night,
He gives me a strong handshake and a smile.
She hugs me close, tells me that she cried the first time she ever saw me play.

I quietly tell her that I understand.
She nods and says she knows...

They saved me from myself for a little while.

I can comprehend hell.
What if it is nothing more than being forgotten,
and being forced to watch life move on in silence.

We like to say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.
When you are in the midst of doubting your own self-worth,
Sometimes you can't help but wonder if absence just makes people forget.
Maybe it is supposed to be that way sometimes.

I can understand it, though.
Some people's faces have been painted over with the colors that remind me of them.

Ah, she was the greenest jade, bright and glittering in her movements, and luminescent in the lives she touched.
He was shades of sky blue, a calm color that eased those around him as well as inspired those closest with a heart that reached out to the horizon.
..and she was at times those deepest reds tinged with orange, passions fed with abundance until things changed again, and then the fiercest of silent furies when the hurt began.

What if you're asked why you could never commit,
Choosing instead to keep your options open.
Followed a religion based in black coffee and cigarettes,
and worshipped in a temple built from insomnia and self-doubt.

What if the only thing you feared more than Heaven
Is your own refusal to see it.

we use kindling here.

We were young and arrogant.
We had all of the answers.
We were intelligent. Extremely.
We didn't need to listen.
We already knew the truth of things,
and a thousand curses on you if you told us differently.

We would sit in our little groups
and preach to our beautiful choir.
No dissent allowed.
We knew we were right.
Of course we were.
We all agreed.
And we would win the world over someday.

No need to listen to the opposition.
They were wrong.
"They" soon became a faceless entity.
Sometimes it was an organization. Maybe an occupation.
Didn't matter who the recipient was of our ire at the time.
They were going to burn from our fury.
We would make things right.

I remember those times.
There was no room for compassion. No need for debate.
"They" were out there.
If you disagreed, then you must be part of the problem, and not as smart as we were.
You couldn't quote famous authors and wax poetic like we could.
I was an ass.

Good intentions.
No one ever thinks it's going to turn out that way.
It always starts small.
A little intention. Less communication.
A lot of passion.

I remember when things changed.
Life happens.
You learn what it is to be wrong.

Dear God, there has to be a better way.
Through humility,
through a deep yearning to understand our differences,
through listening better and talking less.

A quieter way. Softer ways to change a flawed and imperfect system made from flawed and imperfect humanity.
We forget sometimes that those are the things that make us all so beautiful and unique.
Flaws and cracks.
Pain and renewal.

A way without the trendy words that inevitably bring fear into my heart.
I'm well-versed enough to know what revolution really means.
I'm young enough to be idealistic,
Old enough to remember reading and seeing similar beginnings elsewhere. Other times.
I remember what happened.
In many cases, "We" eventually became the next "They".
The wheel turned.

Once upon a time we used to burn witches.
"They" were evil.
"They" needed to be brought to Justice, and they were.
"They" were our daughters.

Never had a chance.

Remember when "They" happened to still be living in the place we were trying to call home?
How dare they...
"They" were savages.
Not as intelligent as we were.
"They" were different.
"They" were part of the problem.
Life would be better without them.
Remember?
We took care of that, killed several thousand along the way. Moved the rest.
But we were right.
We were civilized.

Remember when "They" wanted the right to vote?
What nerve! The great thinkers were quoted in papers across the country
Proclaiming that this would lead to the moral degeneration of a great land.
Why should "the common and uneducated" be given the right to choose.
"They're" not smart enough to know what is right for them, we said.
We called it fact.
We were wrong, weren't we..
We, "the enlightened", were filled with our own arrogance.

I thank God that women still gained the right to vote.

I pray dearly that one day
We no longer think we are superior,
No longer claim to have all of the answers.
We can understand that our gifts of intelligence and good intentions should be tempered with compassion,
A deep knowing that if you truly
have something to say,
then maybe first you should be quiet and
Better damn well learn to listen as well.
I pray that we can overcome our own arrogance and self-importance.
Gain the insight that "they" are made up of people just like you and I.
With families.
With passions.
With lives.

I'll be honest.
I'm just a man, no one in particular.
No great answers to be found here. Just love to play guitar.
I will respect anyone
Who is willing to take the hard roads,
Unpopular paths that lead to shutting the hell up and really listening first before speaking, acting, or reacting.
There will be time for those things later.
Maybe then with a little insight and a lot of patience things can be different.

I can't help but remember
That we used to burn witches, too.