I used to be a poet

Then I became stiff and structured

Dear reader. I write hereby to inform you that I have become stiff and structured. I used to be a poet, a dreamer, wandering the world in harmony with the winds of life herself. Touching the world and touched by the world. Your eyes and smiles, the chirp, the blossom, the root and possum, the cloud stretching its hypnotic greeting passing. The kindness and the sorrow, the joy and play. You all blew the sail of my heart, every day. And the ocean swelled above the railing and draped my vision with a light curtain summer breeze. The perfect romance - on a morning after when the sun bird sung in through the open window - I was at peace - at last my heart was singing. I was in love.

Not with him or her, nor with me nor you. Simply my heart had been twisted inside out and it was painting its wet mystery onto everything. Life was deep and complicated. Yet simple and clear: As it was, as a fact, it couldn't possibly be anything other than this. I was happy.

Then dear reader, I decided to become composed. Resourceful. And I started chipping away at this new dream. I got a job, a place to live of my own. I started structuring my day and my finances. Vague attempts at being.. reliable. Vague at first, then a little more decisive. I fixed up my car with the money I earned. I started going to the gym and week by week I started to get strong again. Firmer. Footing a little more stable. Structure.

And my guitar started gathering dust. I should have noticed the early signs. If I played I practiced rhythm, stable rhythm. And when I wrote it was with meter first, and then I'm ashamed to say - I kept to bullets.

Almost everyone I knew greeted this long due change with gladness. I did as well. I was a man, finally, and with every inch around my arm grew a confidence I hadn't known. I made friends that sought to uplift me and suddenly I soared truly. In the structure of community I was but a man, yet knew my place in the whole - one step closer to what I once knew as the soul. And we all thrived and some where glad and dancing.

I wanted dancing too.

And my sure footing had to go. Humble and stumble. Misstep, blush as a six year old with a cold palm on the shoulder of a pretty lady. Bite through and one day maybe, you'll get to lead her well, laugh and be carried together into the flow of music and rhythm. Maybe six year olds don't blush like this, grownup children do. At least when I dance with someone like you.

But you stood your ground, ensured me that my steps where sound, that they were the steps of someone that just begun. And that missteps is the only way through, the only way to something new.

And you made me a better man, I don't know if you know. Instead of scowling at the weak, with my strong arms that I built to compete, I know try to encourage and uplift.

Weakness is on the path towards mastery, if you aren't challenged you aren't learning, and if you aren't learning you'll grow stiff and stale. You'll need to fail. That's how you'll find wind for your sail.

And once again I was weak and humble, I saw my guitar and decided to stumble. Then I picked up my phone and wrote something honest and scattered that somehow felt true.

And then I sent it to you.

With love,

Alexander