Birthday Boy

Out there somewhere in London is a man who celebrates his birthday today. Somewhere out there is he. I know him. We once shared a pod, as my father would frequently reference, even though I was a soundtrack of music inside a pod, my siblings were peas in a totally different one. In actuality, the incubation space had been the same, and nothing more. He worked with words too, they really meant something to him as well, though I doubted they could possibly mean as much, even if we saw them in a completely different way. He was good at shaping them in certain areas, he was good to read.

There you are, moving, with thoughts, going someplace. Here I am, writing to you. A gift on your birthday, a magical bullet piercing the air, aimed straight for the land you live on. Is your sun shining as mine is also today? Are there feasts and banquets for the senses for you, especially to fill you up this mid July afternoon? For me it is to wish you well, to ponder why the wind moves as it does and blows it all apart. We are lucky and blessed to have such freedom that we have these days. Who really analyses it and feels the weight of this glory?

I wish you a happy day, beautiful boy. It isn’t your light, perhaps I can shine one your way. Candles and cake, the days are complex and multi-layered.

There’s a box. Inside the box is something. Outside the box is much more. It’s possible, easy even, to take the contents for granted, as with anything. Perception, a gift, defines the gift itself. Call you as I do, no answer received. There are no rules, but the games are go.

Always I have wished I’d known you better. Always for you I had more time. Always doesn’t last forever, but my voice at times must speak words for those who appreciate it, and those who understand what makes it sound and move that way. Always I send you my love.