Tamika

Available crumbs of an edible size are gone and there is no longer a need for the parcel to be kept. It is tossed away alongside the piling items that met the different needs of others. But there in the outermost corner if the eye is a figure draped in worn clothing, quietly approaching the concealed assortment of tossed items. This figure held the attention of no one nor sought any regard. The items came and went out of sight. For a split moment the said parcel made its way back to the surface but with a quick shake it became understood that the original contents were depleted. With everything back in its place the figure, unhurriedly, began to drift away. A deep sensation hit with a strong impulse that could not be ignored.

Sir…
Sir…

For another parcel lay amongst the contents still of need.

He smiles and says “Thank you”

Paint a pretty picture and be sure to jot down how many strokes produced no streaks. How many whips of your brush was perfectly aligned and how times you stopped to ponder your next move.

A life in resemblance of perfection, with no flaws and no defeat; no struggle nor grief; no lack of recognizing the delicacies or discernments of another, evokes no authenticity.

Lessons are seasonal and continuous—one season alone will fail to shape an accurate notion of perseverance or relinquishment. Are you willing see another in every season? Or, will you crumble in the face of inconvenience?

Heart is racing. Body contracting from knotting innervation.

The world has seen what you shielded from personal view—the contour behind the lens. Disposed before you as a canvas gifted to a sole artisan. Weakened at the knees as a new canvas is explored, different shades and colors with little to no outlining.

Expectations of consideration while while the creative juices are a flowing. The nerves just won’t let up. What if observation becomes dissatisfaction. Who will you turn to? One contour will lead to another and slowly the gifted canvas will be left behind.

Deep breaths…

The scale is tipping.

A certain kind of foundation was paved along the bottom line. Assembled strong and tight. But the existence of imperfections found its loopholes. Thinking it would always lay the same demonstrates some faulty creed. Growth and expansion and a few discarded elements become anew alongside you.

Why hide behind the delicacies of the early on infatuations when the present-day harbors a gold mine of endless opportunities. Allow inception to be what it was—a source, not a definition…

That name. Cringe…That name.

Scribble it on a piece of paper and watch it perturb perfect alignment.
Trigger One.
Mind games—history of loves order repels escape from memory and refuses remembrance of number 1 status.
Trigger Two.
Inquiring eyes—need to know basis becomes sole basis and personal truth is either revealed or takes a slap to the face.
Trigger Three.
Back and forth with frustration and content with the existence of an arid acquaintance bearing no significance. The years preceding your story’s preface holds precedence…Precedence. Really? Or just maybe, that’s the story mind game is sticking to. No threats lay stationed in your way is what’s said and known to be accurate. But lack of reason for even a mediocre continuation is redundant and simply getting old.

“Trust me” is the ending statement.

Depart.

Years behind the experience of another—been there, done that becomes a motto that refuses to subside its echo. Then what? Play a game of catch up.

Sped pass invigorating life lessons your formative years would’ve had to offer. Insightful information now required to be acquired to eschew being the blame of any dispute. But how can you possibly achieve this catch-22. How do you stabilize the jumping stylus at the cessation of the engraved wavy lines. Age is just a number, still, it can influence the intricacy of knowledge.

Compromise will be the ultimate key to success in the years you trail behind. Patience and the combined willingness to learn will pave the way for joy or sorrow.