The month of June was filled with three college classes, 16 weeks in 16 days. Now that I'm in limbo between the semesters, especially since it's more and more likely that my Autumn Semester at UNM will be just as digital as the Summer was, I think I'm done with bleeding. I know, that requires a bit of explanation, so there's that good ol' college try.
Since the beginning of the Year of Our Great Orange Leader, 2020, I've had a landmass of mountains magically erupt from hidden traps others had buried and the standard chaos of existence itself presented as a gift. I stumbled several times, from thoughts of suicide on a level I hadn't experienced in years that also scared my friends and family, to a infectious disaster in my jaw at the hands of someone who wasn't as careful as he should have been, to failing classes I shouldn't have, but the limitations of my own psyche informed me otherwise.
And in June specifically, I write four short screenplays that are rather excellent and took me by surprise, but when I scratched that wound, blood, hate, and fear poured out as though it was fresh. I thought it had long since been just the past, a past that I became better at letting be just the past. I wanted to make more of those short screenplays, collected in a group of short looks into my past in a fictional sense - a modern take on "The Wonder Years."
I loved it instantly.
But is that freshness worth it? I can hear the child's wrath behind my voice. My heart pounds as though I stand in front of human I have always thought of and called MONSTER ever since he came into out lives. I feel the vulnerability to let go of that wrath, and say those words of forgiveness, and with trained action, I wall up those words with a sign that has only one word:
I'll leave this post with just one more thing:
Tough, yet crunchy tip
Snags on a thread’s loop
Torn asunder old from new.
Quickly, life fills in
That acrid rich smell,
Old, glue, new, repeat it all.
Did I ask why?
Why must I live through this again?
Can’t I see through the curve of the truth that I cannot keep it up?
Do I really need to keep going back, all the way back there now?
Is it all the pain I can see?
No, it can’t be.
I must choose to go,
To go on forward
Let the scab fade to a scar.
Then, it’s memory
A place to visit
But smell not that acrid rich.