Lately my minutes have become hours, hours have become days
and days have become weeks. The nights have become a sonnet that whales at
a volume 11. I find myself reaching for the remote to lower the volume on
a TV only to realize it’s on mute.
This screaming of thoughts is an uncontrolled river after a
thunderstorm without end. A storm without hope from a rainbow. I’m dragged
out to sea and get lost in the sand grains of life.
Recently I jumped on a plane to find a reason. Not
myself. The measure of a man described by Sidney Poitier is “To simply
wake up every morning a better person than when I went to bed.” My life
is about accomplishing this one simple deed. But what happens when I can’t
sleep? Does this make me the same flawed man in the sunrise? Will I ever
find the puzzle piece God created to complete me. Or better, the person
who holds the key to my soul.
On this journey to the beginning of time, a place where time
didn't stand still, it started. A humble, sincere approach has me
realizing, I am dying without actually living. I’ll roam the earth with
scars that have no place in a heart more deserving. I sound like a broken
record or a broken heart. It is, it’s mine and now more than ever I
realize from the words of a man who for whatever reason wrote these simple
words. “Estoy viviendo sin vivir, estoy muriendo sin murir.” This
is what is left.
Yet does my darkness not deserve to be understood? We
all suffer from a preoccupation of life, love and an unreal perfection. Its
valiant for a square peg to fit in a round peg, yet the only way it will is if
the roundness of the heart is larger than the rough edges of the scars that
come with the square peg.
What happened to the simplicity of life? Where the
measure of a man was based on the callous of his skin. Instead we walk by
people laying on the ground and feel nothing. How can people walk without
feeling? This holiday season my world turned upside down. Appalled
at the human spirit, when did the skin become so insensitive to your brothers
and sisters? One God, right?
On Christmas Eve, while most families were celebrating
life. I found myself playing Santa Claus to my brothers and sisters that
don't have. My heart has not recovered. To realize that so close to
my soul are families without, crumbled all that I am. My heart was in
disarray before I put the big guy suit, watching the smiles, the gleam in the
eyes of people made my skin feel alive. Yet, it was the lack of emotion
on this one child, he made my heart cry.
I want to crawl into your bed and have you hold me.
Tell me there’s a reason for life. My heart is in disrepair. The
sorrow in that Child’s eyes prevented me from closing mine for a night’s
rest. The lack of your warmth is why my labyrinth into this solitude is
my own prison. It’s why the tears run down my cheeks at night and wring
my neck.
“This isn't Christmas! Your not
Santa Claus!” My response, “Yes I am.” Only to have the child tell me, “Then
all I want for Christmas is a home!”
I could not let him go. I realized the measure of a
man is not what he accomplishes in life, it’s how he treats humanity, how he
treats those without reason, how his skin heats at the thought of a woman he
loves, how he comforts those who don't ask, how he finds the difference in
comfort to the challenge of his own heart.
La piel de un hombre se cuenta en momentos de amor a la
vida. La cruz de madera es de esos momentos cuando la piel rechina con la
perdición de amor y vida. “What happened to the old me?” Well my
friend, when he left to find reason, he realized his heart belongs to someone,
he realized the prison of life can be vacated with a kind word, the heart in
disrepair can be patched together by never giving up on life. By always
waking up a better man than you were the day before.
The measure of this man is a story has only begun. The
question is, will you hold my hand and never be ashamed of my touch?
Me.
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