Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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That call ruined two decades, regret pounding at the door of resilience to average days; those routines ignored and unappreciated, dismissed as cowardice and choking happiness. Because nothing was good enough, the plaster of shattered walls caking fists and the dull ache of bruised bone a constant reminder that possibility was folly, the weak-minded’s fork in a road where the path taken was lamented in mirrors brow-beaten, chaos angles at play in the day to day, hours growing cold in the winters where belonging betrayed and suffocated dreams gasped for hope in the clear air of home. How that other world beckoned, church chimes ringing loudly for those lapsed of faith, the heart hearing – paying – the toll with the pull, pull, pull of undeserving promise. And finally the fragile home collapsed, comfort demolished and great billowing dust clouds swelling outward, coating now in the chalky remains of kindness and support. All that was left was to sweep, collect, contain yesterday in an urn with solemn reverence and then turn and listen again to the dull ache of bones reverberating like tuning forks smacked low by destiny. Tomorrow was a threat, and the bloodied, self-mutilated under alleged failures and veins coursing more with disdain than blood, stopped the pummeling, looked west and stepped quietly into acceptance, the magic world of that other path appearing on the far side of a barbed thicket that proved only as deep-cutting as allowed. And awash in sun, there was welcome and the shock of assurance, the overwhelming scope of adolescent hope reeled in, cleaned and devoured, nourishing a broken today. It’s time to dine on tomorrow, a meal prepared for the always-deserving only now hearing the call of the dinner bell and seeing the table set.


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