Back again, the sleepless nights surrounded by thoughts,

Of days gone by and yesterday.

The crowd of present and past, envelop me,

Sometimes saying nothing, just appearing for a moment,

Others, more direct, with an experience of a past relived,

But in some locution so vivid,

It just happened.

 

Can I count these like sheep and then return to some slumber or peace, currently eluding me?

Not possible,

As mature thoughts they are no longer remembrances … trophies of halcyon days,

Or missed opportunities,

Or a parallel life unlived by me,

Rather possibilities conceived.

All are distractions, but in a good way.

 

Inerasable, unchangeable, instances of potential.

Some were followed with great gusto,

Where some imbibed knowledge or direction made the decision,

Which became the path of my life.

Now, the measure of who I am … not who I could have become.

Yet, these others, the crowd who surrounded me,

Even for a moment. Remain.

 

Why this distraction now?

Couldabin … Shouldabin … Mightabin.

Self-examination perhaps, yet not likely.

The grace we know as love seeps through all,

Special events and relationships,

Disappointments, times of torture, are now healed.

So only love remains.

 

And the complex work of contemplating the meaning of this beloved distraction.