Wound, unwound and around.

Beyond the horizon now, the sun has dipped, marking the end of my 38th voyage around its entirety.

This passage of time… The thoughts in my mind about mortality, capacity, and tenacity tonight has inspired me.

Spinning, spiralling, revolving and winding.

Air fills my lungs, and water spills from my lips as I pace between shadow and light.

Each footstep, placed mechanically, thoughtlessly, rhythmically, casts unheard, echoing sounds into the heat of the early night.

Spinning, spiralling, revolving and winding.

…How many summer nights have I savoured?

What cherished secrets and dreams have I salubriously sung to the stars?

For my dreams, where have I laboured?

What costs have I incurred, paid in time, and energy, and mistakes, and triumphs, and wounds and scars?

Spinning, spiralling, revolving and winding.

What is a year in one’s life supposed to be?

Earth rotates and orbits: It winds around the sun — like a ribbon wound onto a spool.

No, this simile is inaccurate concerning me.

No longer am I as taut. Each passing day, calmness and authenticity are how I refuel.

Spinning, spiralling, revolving and winding.

Responsibilities have found me, but I join with them willingly, for I alone must shoulder them and continue forward.

It’s fine to be nostalgic of the innocence of youth, or the freedoms once had, but that cannot be what I move toward.

Spinning, spiralling, revolving and winding.

Each step changes me. They are meaningless in isolation, but looking at the tracks I have made, my feet have carried me far.

And so, into the night I keep walking. The summer breeze spurring me on as I contemplate my entire context as an abstract memoir.

Spinning, spiralling, revolving and winding — and unwinding and around.

#poetry #birthday