Accelerating With My Eyes Closed

W e move through life in chapters,
as we learn to read them.
Every lesson is not understood,
Before we turn the page.

As youth we move briskly through the book of life,
Only skimming the text.
Rushing to the next happenstance.
Decreasingly illiterate,
Nonetheless, remarkably unwise.
Hastily making choices,
Re-sculpting the pre-sent, before our eyes,
In misconstrued moments of the present.
Only to revisit those very same moments in the future,
But then as permanently erred yesterdays.

I sometimes close my eyes to replace my own past,
With a then, where I was always right,
Each move fortifying my nirvana.
Molding a perfect past.
One that would have offered me an ideal now.
A yesteryear without goodbyes,
Or Unfortunate untimely exits.
No broken hearts or shed tears,
Flooding the spaces in which I learned life.

I close my eyes, drifting to a place where,
Embraces last a long as the feeling of love.
Love does not play hide-and-seek
Or pull disappearing acts.
Infatuation is honest,
It simply telling you that it is a temporary feeling,
Not made to last,
Like ice cream, Indian Summers, orgasms, and pain.

Masquerading happens in parties,
Not relationships where it hurts souls,
Turning melodious beating hearts cold,
Silencing counterparts,
As they go their separate ways.

I sometimes close my eyes walking to a place where the truth is sweet.
Hearts forever beat, meet and mingle as freely as wandering eyes,
And children at playgrounds in sandboxes,
Free of societal constructs and, any sense of time.
Everything lasts forever.
The word morning never contains a u,
Because you are too busy making me as happy as I make you.
Morning never means bereavement,
It is only early in an ideal day,
Everyday is like Christmas Day,
Full of gifts given and received,
Joy felt, love is expressed intensely, intently.
Selective amnesia chooses all the right moments to forget,
And the balance is euphoric,
So much so that it kind of tingles,
Like she circled yes on that note I passed,
Like the first time confessing, “I love you”.
Like a place where loved ones never leave for any reason.
Eves don’t make apple offerings to stupid men.
They only precede holidays,
And everyday is tomorrow’s eve,
Everyday is the best day of our lives.

I sometimes close my eyes running to a place where a flawless truth is not merely make believe.

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I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

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