#yearoftransformation

[anisotropism]

I cannot teach you how to write like me.

You write of pain as an acquaintance, the kind that has given you a mean glare or choice words. You do not know pain as an old friend and mentor, the kind that taught me all that I know, but has forced me to make meaning of it alone.

I cannot teach you anguish.

You write and you do not know why you write some of the things you write--what purpose, what audience, what motive there is to pour ink onto pages. I once wondered the same with what I published, and there's a reason I know that a cry for the world to hear is the same as a call to the void--expecting nothing in response but still hoping someone might intervene.

I cannot teach you torment.

You write like you still have hope, and you do, because if I can give you nothing else, I can give you hope that there will be something there for tomorrow. It's more than I have for myself.

I cannot teach you despair.

I cannot teach you how to write with the things I have left.

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[anisotropism]

The Banality of Broken Things

-Silverware that's slightly bent -A car's bumper with a dent -A slowing stopwatch, ticks off-time -An ancient mirror caked with grime -Rusting, worn, wrought-iron gate -Old machinery left to fate -A bottle lays in shattered shards -The parts of bikes left in backyards -The best-laid plans that fall apart -A normal, beating, human heart.

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[anisotropism]

The Metamorphosis

In those days, I wondered if the winds of change ever reached the doldrums that is my existence, Half-expecting that the stagnant peace that arose tempered by war was the endpoint. You see, it was when I forced myself to go that I contemplated that I could end up worse--not home--but where I started. I wrote of navigation and turning tides, but the journey has always been about becoming different.

When I look upon salvage turned shipwreck, forest became desert, forecasts of rain now drought, embers giving way to ashes-- legacies of creation turned remnants of destruction, I know I've written the same ending to a different story.

I might be told I became a better person, But it is hard to accept that when you feel that you have lost more of your humanity.

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Here ends the Year of Transformation.

[anisotropism]

Of Rivers and Lakes (Lost Chapters #5)

I know New York is a thousand miles to the east, so standing on stones painted with promises past (unspoken, maybe some broken), I know you are somewhere beyond my gaze.

Here, as always, I get to create the symbols only for strangers: You are a collection of lights, and I am the dark that keeps it lit; You find your peace in the bustling crowds, I find my turmoil in the stillness around me; Your river runs ever on, my lake ends here, and no matter how far I am from where I used to call home, I know what the view is without a moment's glimpse-- islands, skylines, lovers sharing dreams.

When I look toward where I want to be, where serene surface converges on moonless sky, all I see is endless night.

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[anisotropism]

Salvaging Salvation

Life and hope were dashed against the rocks On the voyage I had never intended to embark on.

The days were for survival When I could find my way through what no soul had seen, And the choices were scarcity or subsistence. Good fortune meant sometimes, I could return to the ruins And raid, and ration, and reason, and restore, Until I deemed that there was nothing left worth saving.

And there were nights when I still prayed for any rescue-- Searchers of mine who still sought hope, Or audacious souls brought in by some errant tide, Ready to bear me to my known destination before they sought their unknown.

As the horizon stayed static, I began to understand that What I believed of the wreck Was what they believed of me.

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[anisotropism]

An Aftermath of Ashes

I've always wondered in the wake of an inferno what the cost of senseless and preventable tragedy would be when there is nothing to pick out from the remains. On a hill where higher vantage points still used to grow, I might ask how colorful heights give way to char for the vanity of someone who believes they can clear the way for something more majestic.

The perceived obstacle course disguises home, and I believe that to cut pieces away should be solely for the purpose of creating something lasting from the paper hearts, begging apology that I must tear apart one beauty to build another, instead of burning it all to the ground for personal gain without replacement.

And the way of life is that there are natural disasters, calamities coming from lightning strikes, dry spells, or an unfortunate proximity to the earth's molten rage, that are survived with remnants scattered to start anew.

You can claim to do the same, but who are you to tell a forest to grow, or even know if there are any seeds left?

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[anisotropism]

Stardust

Ages past, constellations did not dim in the midnight sky. Eternals, celestials--they could not die in human eyes. They must though, so that we can live. We are ashes of the stars.

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