I stared up at the street lamp moon and wondered
how it could justifying hiding the night from me. The stars
were headlights on the wet grass. Lately,
I have been tripping on the holes in my day much more frequently.
They started out small, the holes. They were momentary lapses
into sanity, a defined detour. They were a piece of night
in a day of street lamps and traffic lights. Today is different.
The holes are larger and they disrupt my vision
with the persistence of a soldier. I have never met a soldier,
but if I did, I would wish him the best and warn him
of these holes. They can be a bit distracting
when one is trying to protect his fellow man. I used to be a visionary,
but now I wear contacts. Insanity will save us all
one day, once we stop worrying about the eyes of the world.
As the lamplight lit the cigarette smoke sky, I began to remember
my home, the place I knew before the holes. My mother
always argued greedily that, “Home is where the heart is.
When you are home, there is your heart.”
While I would never argue with my mother, she is wrong.
Home is not where the heart is, it is where the heart
decides it should be. Homes are the holes in the day
where your heart makes great leaps of faith
and lands in the soft grass.
There is only one conclusion I can draw from the persistence
of these holes as they threaten my insanity. Take great pains
in choosing the hole you fall into. Once you let go,
there is no looking back.