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Perspective: Translating to 98

It’s a tool of translation. This buzzing sound, the constant hum of all the prayers, chants, and addictions. The songs that call out for you and ask the whys and knows that which was unsaid. The constant pulling. The constant pushing of what is opposite and unparalleled and oppressing. How this dance of reaching and prying and luring and waiting for the words to fall into place in a way that convinces you that this here is right and good for you. It’s the charm. The sound, the feel, the frequency. Watch, as I plea. At your feet, in a speech that is so planned, scripted and so perfect. Hear, as I say your name as if it’s the God of this world. To me. Well I am. But you are just as much as the brilliance and the sprout and the seed as I am. So I love looking at you and hearing you and loving you because I love myself in that venture. Because the God we know, is due credit and attention, and thanks, memory. To remember who we are and who we are from, to see it in each other. And to experience the instance of experiencing itself in various forms and to express itself in various ways of translation.

And everyday, I do something to make me better, in hopes of meeting your standards. And everyday I attempt to calm my urge to reach for you, soften that song that calls for you, well sometimes. Remeasure those moments of cringe into lessons rather than embarrassments. Everyday, in hopes that you’ll come see me again.

I have to explain that this is not normal. This is not healthy. To dream of you more than I dream for myself. To wish for you all the best, not really considering details of the rest. Just know that you being blessed is of course to the credit of your God, also that I send my love and hopes and dreams and songs and light to you everyday. Everyday I miss you, everyday, I crave you, and on the days that I’m upset with you, or confused by you. In all it’s always my attention, going to you. And I figure that’s what you know you need. That’s why you make yourself so perfect. You get the attention, and that’s your fuel. I simply supply, in hopes to gain some in return. In its time, but in this life I beg. Like this year maybe? Can we start again?


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