As President Obama and Mitt Romney faced off in their final debate about foreign policy, two of America’s most experienced global politicians, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and her husband former President Bill Clinton traveled on a one-day trip to Haiti. The purpose of the…
No one ever tell you about these stories,
for most, they end on a happy note,
pat yourself on the shoulder,
hugs and kisses, the end.
its a wrap.
Like the end of a slide, you can see it, you had fun, but there aren’t any do overs.
no cut back no bonus footage post credits, no sequel planned.
just a solid movie.
I suppose the director yells “cut!!!”,
more hugs and kisses,
champagne bottles and sail.
However its not the end,
there are acts and scenes yet to be edited,
reviews, and than only when the credits rolls can you finally say its over.
So here I am a critic,
in a hospital room, the stench of death lingers around.
I miss the happy ending,
I miss the lie,
the uptempo song that had just nothing to do with the plot,
so Fuck the guy, that says its half full,
I know its half empty and I’ve already drunk my fill so keep the cup.
optimism is the weak. hopefulness is for the delusional.
I’d even take a Morgan freeman speech,
or even get me the guy that played Mufasa.
but no one tells you the truth
the decay of life happening right before your eyes,
as bacteria begin to contemplate where to begin,
the stories and chapter unravel and the conclusion, just as lifeless.
no more left to give, no more strength just weakness and vulnerability.
The curtain drop, and Death makes us all infants again.
It makes us voiceless, thoughtless, and renders us empty once more.
I’d pull the plug only to stop this endless beeping,
the slow decent in pressure,
the lapse in time in recovery,
and each pieces of the final paragraph of words never spoken.
I guess this is the part that they never tell us,
cause its never pretty, there aren’t any smiles,
remorse and resentment, hate, sadness, loss,
there isn’t time left on the script for a recovery,
let alone words that were never spoken,
there is only death,
where one fines themselves lifeless.
no money, no fan fare…
In the end, just a humbling experience where one’s past unravels to one future,
and in turn breathes life to a new.
Some where someone just died,
Some where someone just breathed for the very first time.
I was never that great of a story teller but I always wanted to be.
I watched my grandpa tell stories to my family. They were always at the edge of their seat, fixated on the story but then again it was simpler times. One could easily say that a black out is a bad thing but honestly, a black out was a great thing. My aunt could still cook a mean dark all natural hot cocoa from scratch on a gas stove, and the bread was already purchased and made fresh. Looking for matches were hit or miss but we always found them. And your eyes, they were forced to open and allow darkness to consume and illuminate. And someone always cried, I don’t recall if It was me but looking at my little cousins now I can only imagine that I did too, at least as a toddler. Walking up in heat and in darkness, would be disorienting.
Lack of electricity forced our diet to stay less preserved and more day to day that way. It was always more textures that way, more diverse, and each ingredient was always distinct. You could taste the flavor of each thing and you learned to separate the stuff you didn’t like. Writing that drew a smile on my face, memories of empty moments when no one was paying attention and you could run to the trash. I was notoriously tossing out beans. I’d count them, for the life of me couldn’t remember why. My little cousins, especially India and Franceleslia lived like princesses and forced us to wait for them to never finish their food. Way to go, teamwork moment which never worked out. Kim, that girl was fast asleep no matter the circumstance. No matter the day, the candles flickered as the wax ran down.
Serge and Shameeqka, those two always sat with the grownups playing dominoes. I didn’t get the game back then, well not enough to count what was missing or to cunningly set people up. The candlelight would flicker and the D cells came in handy for the radio or at least until the stars stole my attention. I never thought I should be up there. I’ve never seen an astronaut nor did I care to be one, however I did learned about its infinity and the idea that we are one among so many. We could never be alone, unless we choose to be.
So you see, a black out was a bad thing to some but I guess if you valued all night parties, I could see that it could suck but if you valued quality time, then it was nothing more than one of the best opportunities to remember that my family were people who sat at the edge of their seats, eager to learn, eager to listen and eager to remember that these were simpler days. And maybe, I might have remembered a thing or two about storytelling, learned to eat my meals slowly, found my way out of the darkness, and even saw the infinite possibilities of worlds never travel but always visited. So I listen closely, eyes heavy, as proud as ever to words left unsaid in a quiet night under the arms of one of my aunts wondering if I’d remember any word or maybe that I would just remember him as a man.
The Old Storyteller.
I need to make something like this soon
In 1991, we were evacuated from Port Au Prince, Haiti because while the Haitian president was in Washington, D.C., the military decided to call elections; coup d’etat. The U.S. government was seriously P.O.’d and ordered “involuntary departure” for all but essential personnel, which didn’t include my husband but did mean me, our son and the miscellaneous animals.
Luckily, we maintained a house in the New York Catskills to which we repaired and installed ourselves, just in time for the devastating, east coast, ice storm of 1991. After the storm hit, our area was without electricity or running water for about a week and a half.
But I had water. Having just left Haiti where power and water outages were common, as soon as the electricity went out, I automatically without thinking, began to fill up the bath tubs, buckets and bowls with water, laughing at myself but mentally unable to break an instinctual…
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What happens to the person that commits suicide by simply envying death?
Who construct glass houses that reflects only their own envy and insecurities that he sees in others,
Unable to breathe the very sustenance and nourishment of what he does have,
To the point that only his mistakes adorn his halls,
His foundations based on cynicism, logic,
and newspaper clippings of what others did,
While he watched.
Covered by apologies and second chances that made him humble.
I realized that the only true fear that I’ve ever known, was growing old.
I refused it and waited for death, hoping it to be sooner rather than later
Until one day I woke up and realize that I was older and wasting away.
Adults that surrounded me seemed to be unhappy with existence itself,
And looked upon me with eyes of misery.
I was a living reminder of their mistakes,
I only realized today that it’s not their fault that they were human.
I hope that this second chance is the chance that I need to get it right,
I hope that this second chance is the one that I need to make it better,
I hope that this second chance is the one that I need
Because my mistakes adorn the halls of my own home of which I can’t no longer escape
So I face them, with the only thing I thought I never had.
The humble humility to want to live.
To want to grow old.
So I ask what happens to the person that commits suicide by simply envying death,
Well if he/she is lucky enough, they might realize that they rather live instead.
And for those that do, I understand and I pray for your chance to come sooner than later.
So that you are not old enough not to live.
So as for me and my suicidal thoughts against life,
I only ask the almighty to forgive me,
and thank you for believing in me enough to never give up on me.
— There are many ways that people commit suicide and live long lives.
To those I hurt on my way up and my way down I’m sorry.