There are footprints in the snow that lead me to a version of you I know so well. There are memories of who we used to be that don’t belong yet of which still linger. The hours pass in due course. The eyes of those I have gazed into during the dark silence of night- they still pierce my mind no matter how long the passage of time since I last knew them. But did they ever know me? It’s doubtful. Nobody has ever known me because my truth has never been allowed to flower. Well, not until the words begun to flow, and when they finally came, they were a personal Jesus for a personal hell, and although the struggle to speak has been a long and arduous one, to speak the truth is all we can do. There is no blame attached to what has come to be, nor the need to settle scores, for the older I get, the more apparent it becomes that the truth is the only thing that matters. Pleasure raises a smile, but it soon wears thin, and those who base their lives on only this one sensation seem to be forever chasing their tails for a new tame thrill to paper over the cracks. Elliott Smith once sang that it bummed him out to remember, and it does to me, too, and yet it has to be done. It’s not enough to just seek happiness because happiness sedates. I said that once before, and I’ll say it again. To be aware of all things and to be at one with everything- there is nothing else that comes close. Kiss my lips. Hold my hand. Walk the line and raise your arms to those falling snowflakes. Smile not to deny but to embrace. Dance and cry and lose yourself in the tiniest glimmers of light. There are footprints. There are gardens. There are reflections of lovers that shimmer something golden even though so much has happened to diminish their light, but shimmer bright they do.