He thought the American dream and his woman could build a fence around his soul, putting distance between him and his pain, life’s constant barrage of woes, and all his dreams that had fallen like garbage out of the sky… dreams that now lay broken and rotting at his feet.
But neither time nor his wife could work that magic. That alchemy was his and his alone. But society forgot to teach him that lesson… or maybe society never really read that book.
So the personal demons he never accepted or figured out he could learn to play with, sat in the dark growing long arms… arms long enough to travel through the space between this world and the next, legs tall enough to climb over that white picket fence he finally erected around his ever shrinking household, and hands so strong that they could chock the bitter darkness of life right out of him.
I don’t know if any of this is true of course… I’m just someone who writes his poetry on a kind of smart phone… but I have the inkling of a feeling that our protagonist only really started to breathe after he’d danced and tumbled with the grim reaper.
Breath is life. So hopefully, before the end of this film, with rays of sunlight sparkling like gold through the leaves of the trees, we can remember the feeling of freedom and the liberation of forgiveness, and where we stand, sit or lie, grasp with both hands, changing heart and mind, this chance to breathe…
Song of the Day