RUN-ON-THOUGHTS IN POETRY-PROSE…and

Eyes are always on me, no matter where I turn, what I do, whom I see. I feel like that

Zora Neale Hurtson novel “Their Eyes Were Watching God” living life in flashbacks; memories racing in circles like a silly child’s carnival carousel, or like guilty drippings of affairs masking truths with lies. Staring into a mirror’s past reflection, and what do I see now, besides an empty shell where an inflated ego dwelled. Locked door, preventing visitors, and un-rolling masking- tape over windows, over heart, so that no one can even glimpse me. Wait this isn’t about me…I think…I digress.

Masking tape over windows blocking the light from entering, so that the darkness masks everything, including the shadows that walks before our steps. Hmmm if given the option, how many of us would turn the hands of the clock back, erasing mistakes made. But that would be the power of premonition, and I wonder how many lives would be saved then? Maybe those are the gifts of Gods, or God-women boasting about special Shaman powers, and if we dress that up, localize them, call them seer-women, obeah men or whatever you wish, we slowly realize that no spirit-wish can change destiny. Maybe destiny is pre-determined before birth, and being a believer in re-incarnation, I believe in karma and soul’s choice to choose the trappings of incarnation…more digression, but necessary in my mind’s chaos.

So these God-women or shamans, and I digress intentionally, court nature and chant the wind into believing that God is to the north, south, east, west, top, bottom and center of our being. They dream spirit-animals that help us understand our nature. So God is never to the sky but available with every breath and sight of our existence. There is no heaven and hell to be fearful of. No damnation, despite what pulpits shout on early Sunday morning as they embrace the weight of prayers dressed in chiffon and stockings, high heels clutching suits and polished shoes, holding the hands of children. And their smiles make us envy the singing and clapping of the congregation, and when I was a child I believed they were all happy after service ended…but I was only a child.

“Their Eyes Were Watching God” ever wondered what God looked like, it is said that ‘He’ made us in his own image and likeness, then that would mean that ‘He’ is like a mirror reflecting us all. Digressions run the gamut of thought in this piece of sharing. I no longer can identify where my musings end and my digressions begin.

However I do remember looking out at crowds, seeing eyes staring, dead, and I thought that zombies didn’t exist in this country. Dead eyes, lost of hope and dreams walking lifeless, going through the motions of living, cursing life and God and existence and birth and what do those eyes look at, if not at the God within us all. Namaste…my hands together in front me, I bow, hoping to connect their gaze, it never meets mine and I move on, without finding answers.

Each man is now becoming an island, connecting across the matrix of fan clubs and profile pages, sometimes never really meeting the essence of who we really are. Lies cloning identities of whom we think we should be. And who’s the God within us? Who’s the God we’re supposed to be watching, if it’s not you.