Walls; we’ve all got them, right? I’m not talking about the kind of walls that we hang our pictures on, but the ones that we create for ourselves. Our mental barriers that, oddly enough, can often be stronger than the ones that line our humble abodes. For many reasons, we construct walls to keep stuff in, or to keep stuff out. Some are based on past experiences, while many are raised by fears. Either way, they’re ultimately a hindrance; they prevent a freedom of true expression. We will atrophy behind them, thinking that we’re protected, until we earn our release. Let’s get out of there, right? Think about it. Best of days to all, and thanks for reading!
I am a huge dreamer. I try to also be a huge doer. It is a challenge to find that balance, since it’s often much easier to do the dreaming than it is finding the time and mojo to DO. The two (hopefully) go hand in hand, as dreams are nothing but fairy tales without action. As such, I am a huge advocate for dreaming and doing. A major advocate for living life rather than just existing. My poems are not meant to be preachy, “this is how you should live your life” style poems, but rather reminders of things that I think about. Things that I have noticed in my own experiences and in my own walk of life. I don’t pretend to have any answers at all. But I’ll tell you what, the quest for those answers is fun…and it is my joy to write about those explorations. In that vein, feel free to check out today’s observation. We are all on this journey together…let’s try our best to dream and do. I’m with you. Best of luck to you today.
We bought ninja stars and throwing knives online and hurled them like major league pitchers at anything that we could puncture. Nothing was safe from our alcohol infused ninja wrath, as boxes, bags, and everything in between fell victim to our onslaught. We fancied as ourselves blue collar sportsmen as well, and developed our own Olympic caliber games, such as the legendary sports of Warehouse Tennis, Wall Ball, and the venerated Quarterback Challenge. We shoved hunks of raw meat and random bits of leftover lunch under a broken crevice in the concrete floor one entire summer just to see how many maggots and critters that we could attract to it. Needless to say, we succeeded in attracting a city’s worth of bugs to that hole like animals to the Ark. You name it, we did it; nothing was off limits, no dare was too great, no joke was unworthy. Great cardboard tubes that once held monstrous fabric rolls became fabled swords and wicked spears, and hole-riddled boxes stood as a testament to the epic battles and wars that we waged against each other to pass the hours. I was an Obi Wan with a cardboard tube. And the time did fly, let me tell you. It passed in a drunken haze; we spent untold fortunes of cash nearly every day on bottles of booze, bottles that we’d skillfully guzzle throughout the day by the cupful, right before the eyes of management and the front office. We toted our red Solo cups around with pride in fact, and downed our spirits in front of all who dared enter our sanctuary. We practically dared them to approach us about it. And we only got busted once. Our livers suffered greatly while playing the role of a Brita filter that summer, yet we became remarkably adept at getting the job done while being loaded to the gills on whiskey, rum, and whatever other distilled goodness we could muster. The very definition of functioning alcoholics. We were a well-oiled machine, though our gears were greased with Jack and Coke.