Reckless

song in my head - “Plain Sailing Weather” by Frank Turner

I’ve grown up a lot these last couple of years. A lot of things have happened to me that have smoothed my rough edges.

Life entering this world.

Life leaving this world.

Meetings and partings, as they say.

I’ve gotten more serious, more thoughtful, more introspective, more professional.

But I’ll never be completely safe.

There’s a recklessness in me, a rebellion, an artist in tune with the Muse. Most days I keep things in check, play the role of an adult, and do my work as a careful and dedicated professional.

And then there are times when I stay up until all hours of the early morning, drinking whiskey, with a guitar in my hand or a notepad in my lap, and I sing songs and pen stories that well up within me an almost spiritual flood of emotion, a deluge of senses and seances seen and unforeseen. And it’s in those “irresponsible” moments that I remember myself.

Thoreau once said “our truest life is when we are in dreams awake.”

To dream is an act of recklessness; to act on that dream borders on the insane.

But to deny that dream means death, not just for what is but for what could be. Chaos and disorder are where chance is supreme, where creation begins.

We all need a little chaos. We all need dreams awake.

Go and dream. Be reckless. Be you.

And never let anyone tell you otherwise.

—G

Life, wait for me
These seas are stormy
Breathe in, slowly
Life, wait for me

Love, wait for me
This heart is heavy
Breathe in, slowly
Love, wait for me

Life, wait for me
These seas are stormy
Breathe in, slowly
Life wait for me

The Fall

Everything I touch turns to dust
Mentors are fired
Relationship are retired
If my soul was attached, it would rust
Fortunately, it isn’t, though—split from it like Pan’s shadow
Sewn to my heel
Stitched so I can feel
Every
Single
Step I take
That takes me further away

And the trail of ash and bodies in my wake keeps me awake at night
Hoping for a sign that I’m doing something right
But the destruction says otherwise
Is my heart just a heart that lies?
Lays useless, steady fruitless, on decline and yet divine?
Because I always feel Your spark
That ember
But I can’t feel me way through this September
And it isn’t even cold yet
Just wait until the sun sets

Just wait until the snow’s wet

Slush swish this way and that
I’m a skinny-tired bicycle on ice that is black
And if I could only get back—
Maybe I shouldn’t have left all
But I didn’t know then what I now know in the Fall
That come Winter, it’s impossible to thaw