The Question

Hell if I know where this is going.
Hell if I know anything.

I act like I do.
Call it survival.
Maybe it’s theater.
Maybe it’s my weird way of saying:
“Don’t panic, y’all.
I’ve got this mystery wrapped up.”

Or maybe I’m just lost,
tiptoeing through shadows.

There’s a darkness in me.
It’s been scared shitless.
I’ve stared it down long enough to know:
it doesn’t leave -
it just learns to sit quiet,
like a dog waiting for scraps.

So here I am.
Wherever here is.
Killing minutes
before the big gate swings open.
The final curtain.

I used to think it was vain
to want the stage.
“Ego,” they’d sneer.
“Self-indulgent.”

Fuck it.
I was born for it.

Not for fame.
Not for cheap claps and autographs -
but for the magic.

To take the stares,
the gasps,
the fragile, raw hearts,
and make them feel something.
Anything.

But the magic leaks out sideways.
Too many ideas.
Too little focus.
Scattered myself into mediocrity -
good at everything,
master of jack shit.

And the music -
God, the music.
It howls in my joints.
A trapped animal.
Fingers burning
with arthritis.

So I tried painting.
The canvas laughed at me.
A smug little square.
Wrong instrument.
Not enough colors.

The magic’s not in the brush.
It’s in the spark.
Between souls.
Eyeballs meet eyeballs.
Hearts collide.
That’s the stuff.

Now I’m full to the brim.
Buzzing like a broken neon sign.
And I’m pouring it out to you.
All of you.

Like a teenage kid again -

dropping the skateboard, the basketball.
This time, not for girls.
Just to feel alive again.

This tongue is new.
The spoken word:
a tool,
a weapon,
a lifeboat in the storm.

But a tongue needs weight.
Roots.
You can’t let it float
like some helium balloon
babbling nonsense to the stars.

No.

It needs dishes done.
Bills paid.
Neighbors waved at.
Arguments walked away from.
The muck.
The grime.
The sacred dirt
of being human.

Maybe that’s the trick.
Stop asking questions.

The brain -
that asshole accountant -
loves to file and categorize,
divide and conquer.

“Why this?”
“Why that?”
“Why even bother?”

But the gift is the gift.
And you either use it,
or it rots in the box.

A baseball bat
can be a home run
or a funeral bell.
The difference
is how you hold it.

And I’ve been in the game
long enough to know:
the rules don’t matter.
The score doesn’t count.

But the innings?
They’ll drag you around
before they kill you,
or teach you something.

I’ve been kicked,
beaten -
but I’ve rounded the bases
a few times.

And you know what?

I’m still here.
Still learning.
Still making a muse of mystery.

And maybe,
with the right footwork,
I’ll make this world
less of a bad trip.

Stop asking why.
Stop asking how.
The questions
are the prison bars.

We’re here to play.
To walk the tightrope
between light and dark,
day and night,
sun and moon.

Two sides of the same coin -
flipping in the air,
never landing.

And maybe that’s it.
The light switch flicks on.
Then off.
Then on again.

And in the flicker -
that’s where the Infinite lives.

To be or not to be?
That’s the wrong damn question.

From here, at least.