Direction

Understanding ones surrounding. The 'things' that become allowed to bend and shape. The pressure which sinks into the grain and leaves an imprint. You are a product of your past, thank you wise friend but in regards to positivity or negativity, that answer lies within your hands. My hands. Whether the sun is shining or the rain is falling, life is flowing and beating. Last Sunday I went to this poetry reading and my heart split and shattered in my arms. I clenched tightly holding my sides and the tears came. There was a guitarist which accompanied the poet and his guitar, those vibrations echoed and at once I was under water swaying against the strength of words. Sound, there is sound even in silence. From one street to the next, countries, cultures diverged and then separated. The assimilation was evident but the purity of tradition rang loud. With my wooden sandals I clanked through China town and then found my way to Little Italy along side artists showing their work in the grass. Everything I do now gravitates me towards that direction. "That direction" is not only the abyss which my fingers close loosely around (for what is the abyss but the aim which one never reaches but gets up for daily and only touches when dies?) but that which is the area of transfusion. Where there is not one color but several walking down the sidewalks, where there is not one accent of hierarchy and richness but different clanks and vibrations flowing from lips. It becomes evident as I write this that, that direction is not a physical place but an internal holding of knowledge and respect for humanity. A place within the cells that pulsate through my veins; a place not hidden but touches those around me and not in a splattering manner but a sensible coolness. Maybe it was that when I was there in the thicket of two opposite cultures joining and coexisting with one another, that I was touched. That I was touched by that direction and that direction began to grow steadily within me.