Sonnet 39

  • Sing this song again tonight,
  • Remind me then of this day,
  • Send me back that forever that's attending now,
  • A present to mimic an already lost stray.
  • This sentiment, these sounds,
  • The vagaries that murmur for more,
  • Abound the motive, the silence resounds,
  • An echo stolen, my lost to another's found.
  • But latch I will, attach I must,
  • To the what-ifs, the should-bes,
  • Hindsight must-nots, exemplories,
  • Plenty to go around, let me dream free.
  • Preset some future hoping for a replay,
  • Reopen that suture, the wounds must continue their stay.

Notes

Sitting inside a giant warehouse coffee shop spaced called "Skye Coffee" and/or "Spacious 88" in Barcelona, mobile config in hand, trying my hardest to put down any amount of legible, sound ink. The environment, the headspace, the opportunities, all there, but nothing.

And this trip differs in ones past because I have almost nothing real to consider. I have no real power to make any real decision that will affect any notable part of my life. I'm replete to accept where I will end up, which is where I've spent the last 4 years, cause of comfort, cause of doubt, cause of a harrowing sense that I'm done for. I'm spent. I'm out.

Dreams exist for a reason, and failure always adjacent. The two can't exist without the other. I don't know how any of this make sense, but reading Frank Chimero makes me want to say what-could-be-profound-but-really-isnt-cause-its-just-jibber-jabber.

I don't know what I'm looking for any more. I don't know what I want anymore. I don't know what I'm destined for. I don't know what I deserve. I don't know how to proceed. I don't know even if I want to be found. I don't know how I should exist. I don't know for whom it matters. I don't know anymore. I really don't.

— Huy on