Some of the newest songs like Born to Die by Lana Del Ray, are used to promote the indifference to life’s trials and the use of our internal wills to surmount them.
I have always chosen not to argue the relevancy or the value of life with those set on mediocrity. Devising philosophies which seek to justify the constriction of the mind.
While I contemplate how I am to maximize the real power of the internet, an endless flow of information-entertainment-and enterprise at my fingertips and half the time I am afraid to really engage with anyone about my desires.
My daughter dies and in truth I am not supposed to pause and remember the moments that have transpired to create this minute. I am supposed to flow into tomorrow without a thought of yesterday’s mistakes.
It is all so fleeting, isn’t?
My grandmother called me to give me her condolences and well wishes. She was angered by the cruelty of time and how we don’t share enough of it together. “Everyone is dying,” She claimed. She just survived the Hurricane Harvey of 2017, I am so thankful I was not there, it was as bad as the 2005 Katrina and people are still disenfranchised and sickly, according to my grandmother.
It is still hard for me to imagine that I was born in that swamp of a landscape that is Houston Texas and the Bayou’s of Wharton and Galveston Texas. They are always the last to receive assistance from the “do-gooders,” of the city, they like to watch the deluge flow down Interstate 59 and kids like me picked up the dregs.
Texas is a hot piece of real estate and the people from there are hot headed and have a mean temper, a lot of water under the bridge between me and Texas.
None of my family handle death well; they know it to be a part of life, it to be a hard pill to swallow, but they never knew how to let the pain wash over them and let things flow.
I was on the phone for two hours with my grandma, who I must remind you was too busy chasing the dollar, a man, and the dream of her own desires to worry about me.
As we talked on the phone, she went on and on about how much she always loved me and never believed anything of the horrible things they might have said about me. “We all tried for your daughter, and you did the best you could with what you had. It might not have ever been enough, but you knew hot to flow.”
In my thirty years of living the woman, never said she loved me. My daughter dies, the very situation that caused strife in my young life and it seems as her birth, ended the wars we wage on hot tempered summer days, her death brought a cooling wind which reminds those willing to pay attention, that at some point we ought to just flow. I almost always feel callous in the suggestion; believing I must inform those who read my tales and are intrigued by my illustrated shorts that the fluidity in which I speak and craft my works is a testament to my flowing nature. Much to the annoyance of those that love me. It is virtually impossible to keep tabs on a person insistent on forever moving to the next opportunity. Knowing if I had not I never would have such a wonderful life, pulsating with such excitement, my flowing ink has filled many tablets. If I keep living their will be more.
I have a friend that is from Slovenia that is a wood sprite and she did me a favor a few days ago. I had been sharing a few of my hurts and pains and how I was getting the raw deal in some business dealings, she laughs and says, “Why worry about what they think, stay here with me and let us continue flowing upon the rivers that we are used to.”
Yes indeed, let us continue flowing upon the rivers that we are used to.