Sarah Cino & Alex Bahadur (MD2020)
They say that I’m unforgiving. Greedy. Relentless. I’ll admit that I may appear this way when you don’t really know me, but I’ll grow with each and every one of you.
You are some of my many children that are not my own but are treated as such, whether I am proud of you or not. We learn together. And I promise that I treat you all the same; I know that it isn't always obvious, but your perception of me is merely a reflection of how I am treated by you.
(I can feel Him)
He squeezes like a vice
-He is my vice.
try as I might He
cannot be controlled.
try as we might He
cannot be controlled.
He eludes us all.
Like the tide He
comes and goes
and we may
rise and ride or
float and survive
or drown and
deny ourselves.
You might have noticed that I have a funny way with patterns. I like repetition; it gives some order to my life, and I know it can for yours, too, though this repetition can have a way of distorting my influence. At this point, I should express that I don’t believe I am the sun that your Earth revolves around –though I know it can be easy to think of me in this way. You constantly have me in your schedules. Your agendas. Your plans. I’m there, whether you want me to be or not.
void
of comfort,
certainty,
control.
Every year, I become smaller and smaller to you. Yet, somehow, I become more and more important. You’ve questioned my existence, but you never fail to rely on me, even when I can’t tell you the future, and even when your present is eclipsed by the past.
But there are moments where you forget I exist, even if just for a slice of your life. And I am most happy in these moments. Less work for me, yes, but it also means that your life is the sun.
guaranteed happiness,
humiliation,
heart ache.
Every month, I walk home with the girl in the 30-year-old footsteps of her parents. I hold the hand of the 85-year old army veteran, walking each day to keep his health, even though he knows that I am slowly taking it. In the hospitals, I pause with the mourners and the elated alike.
He exists,
persists,
and resists
our calls to pass
slow,
yield.
Every day, you realize: we always move forward together –never back. We might not move in a straight line, but we do move. We’re always in orbit.
We are not masters of Him,
for we are not masters of ourselves.
I tell you all this, yet I know that you’ll never really know who I am. But I’ll be there until your sun burns out.
You are some of my many children that are not my own but are treated as such, whether I am proud of you or not. We learn together. And I promise that I treat you all the same; I know that it isn't always obvious, but your perception of me is merely a reflection of how I am treated by you.
(I can feel Him)
He squeezes like a vice
-He is my vice.
try as I might He
cannot be controlled.
try as we might He
cannot be controlled.
He eludes us all.
Like the tide He
comes and goes
and we may
rise and ride or
float and survive
or drown and
deny ourselves.
You might have noticed that I have a funny way with patterns. I like repetition; it gives some order to my life, and I know it can for yours, too, though this repetition can have a way of distorting my influence. At this point, I should express that I don’t believe I am the sun that your Earth revolves around –though I know it can be easy to think of me in this way. You constantly have me in your schedules. Your agendas. Your plans. I’m there, whether you want me to be or not.
void
of comfort,
certainty,
control.
Every year, I become smaller and smaller to you. Yet, somehow, I become more and more important. You’ve questioned my existence, but you never fail to rely on me, even when I can’t tell you the future, and even when your present is eclipsed by the past.
But there are moments where you forget I exist, even if just for a slice of your life. And I am most happy in these moments. Less work for me, yes, but it also means that your life is the sun.
guaranteed happiness,
humiliation,
heart ache.
Every month, I walk home with the girl in the 30-year-old footsteps of her parents. I hold the hand of the 85-year old army veteran, walking each day to keep his health, even though he knows that I am slowly taking it. In the hospitals, I pause with the mourners and the elated alike.
He exists,
persists,
and resists
our calls to pass
slow,
yield.
Every day, you realize: we always move forward together –never back. We might not move in a straight line, but we do move. We’re always in orbit.
We are not masters of Him,
for we are not masters of ourselves.
I tell you all this, yet I know that you’ll never really know who I am. But I’ll be there until your sun burns out.
