sin título

I have something to say, so I'm going to say it. (c)

My backyard.
120-year old Spanish tiles.
White, plastic TrueValue chair.
A sky filled with doubt.
Uncertainty clouds an overwhelming world, purposefully left behind.

22-years old.
Brave?
(No)
Adventurous?
Maybe...

There is always room for speculation.
(No)
It's transparent.

There is more room for change.
A glass half-full--add, mix, grow, shake, repeat.

To what end would you go to measure the likelihood of the same result?

The air smells like home.
The nostalgic home of my parent's oversized leather couch.
A familiar waft of Sunday morning maple syrup mixed with morning breath discussion.
The buzz of cartoons in the background.
The dew drenched newspaper harshly awakens the table.

Here, the air appears the same.
Yet, the smell clears clogged passages.
You miss something intangible and unattainable.
A memory.
Not a place.

I change.
I have and I will.
My glass is half-full--an abstract amalgam of reminiscence.

Yet, in the loneliness of understanding
only the arms of my memory
can embrace and assuage the glimpses
of familiar clouds that stalk my present.

In knowing the intricacies of your past,
you erect mnemonic filaments in honor of your present(ce).

22-years old. My past.
22-years young.                                   I've. got.                        room.