Time, do you have a beginning and end? Or is that to the stories, which must with their telling, reach a conclusion, by the terms of the contract the write to themselves. Like a scene in a movie theater, a stage, a three minute song, an orchestra. I don’t believe this. With billions of authors, across centuries, what is the story we tell? Our endless hearts, which beat in rhythm, in their reality of being, alive. So much is a rush, a panic. But I just want to breathe, and which each breath, write a contract to myself, a promise to never end the hope of tomorrow, a promise I give with each breath I take. But what of those who are taken so young, the black men and women of America, now so many who have lost their lives from fear and hatred. I do not know the last breath. No matter what, those stories can not end. For if they are forgotten, no breath we take should be the last.
The Reluctant Blogger 