Kal, a word that holds so much promise should not be so short, possibilities clipped by tangled tongues, and mixed messages, a clean slate scored with miscommunication. Kareso, just do it! Make it happen, make it so! “Don't worry ‘bout what you don't know! Life's a dance, you learn as you go…” Aaj. Today. With the rising of the sun come many things to be done, some that could happen tomorrow, but are better happening today. Aaj ka din... Today is the day, no more procrastination, prognostication, insipid wandering of mental disinclination. No more waiting for the right time to shine, for opportunities and chances to appear or arise. Kareso. Take action, make your move, there’s only so much you have to lose, but by waiting, procrastinating, you lose those chances that are worth taking. Abh. Now. Time spent reflecting, is only as useful, as the lessons learned from it, else regret demotivates and detracts. I choose to act, lest I lack, results to show for time and effort the effort and time spent, spent wrapped, around what has happened, or what could have been. These four words, this two part phrase, drives me to do better, to act quicker, to take chances that are given so that I can say with confidence that I lived a life worth living. What you would do tomorrow, do today, what you would do today, do now. Kal Kareso Aaj, Aaj Kareso Abh.

A person, is not defined by talents they are given, but by the skills they chose to develop. Choice is a powerful drug, it allows us reach beyond the scope of our being, to sink our teeth into possibilities previously untouched, as we attempt to define the path that lies before us. Our parents begin walking us down that path, from the moment that we begin developing a sense of being, edging us along a through a tangled web of mismatched ideologies and perspectives, woven with the best of intentions. You had the strength of character to push past these shackles, to break free when you had a chance to stretch your wings. New York is a good place for you, free among the blinking lights and city streets, to soar from cocktail lounges to dive bar dance floors, expressing yourself in a way I never could. Where my fingers fly across conscripted keys, you let your body do the talking. Free of embarrassment, you let yourself go, flowing through the shifting crowd, smiles abound, a friendly face to all around. With seamless ease, you flit from conversation to conversation, leaving just the barest trace of your passing, an echo on the skin and on the mind. There is much in you I admire, a simple wisdom in the path you follow, a path that radiates your energy and zeal for life. You have opened my eyes, on numerous occasions, to possibilities previously unknown to me, as I a meander along my own slow paved path. I relish the opportunities, rare as they are in the busy world we live in, to take a moment and relate. We are both growing, but you always give me hope, and a goal.

The best poems are not heard. The best poems are the stories, that are told in the haunted eyes of a refugee child, in the empty wordless cries of a grieving mother, as she searches, for her baby, amongst the rubble of the latest attack. The best poems are in the snapshots of history, glimpses of storied dictators and tyrants, a past that exists only in textbooks and the minds of its survivors. These poems are the poems that are seen, poems that need no words of explanation, poems that stab an icicle through our hearts and open our minds. The best poems are not heard. The best poems are the videos of the soldiers coming home, of the cities employing the homeless, of the countries banding together to replant the desert, attempting to repair the damage industrialization has wrought on the world. The best poems are snapshots of today, the brighter side of the world we live in, poems of hope, poems of change, and poems of redemption. The best poems are not heard. No mixed metaphors and stilted similes, pale protracted personifications, that deviate thoughts from the author’s intention. They are untampered and untainted by attempted translation, recoding the message that becomes lost among words. The best poems are not heard. They are felt.

Words, strewn across a page, mean so much more, when written from the heart. They echo across the mind, leaving trails etched in the ridges of a person’s conscience, as they flit between that person’s ears. When written, words are immortalized, enshrined in the medium of their keeping, to be viewed until they blend together across the reader’s vision, because, when visible, words are nothing more than scribbles on a page, or dots on a screen, a blending of ink and light. When words are spoken, they are brought to life. Flying forth from forked tongues, dancing down from dulcet lips, these reconstituted ideas create an illusion of freedom, temporarily unbinding the thoughts of their speakers, for those around them to know. But this illusion is easily broken, by hardened minds, immovable, unchangeable, and unrelenting. Only a malleable mind can make the most of words, molding them and mixing them, until they meet the meaning meant. What I am trying to say is, there is a certain strength in suggestion, a definite distinction to discussion, where ideas come to life. But there is fine line, between discussion and dispute, conversation and altercation, when words go from consideration to abuse. Some people know that line, and tread it carefully, others ignore it, having no use, for tact, with no knack for considering the truth. This was my struggle, finding the right words to say, mixing and matching rhythms and rhymes, finding a place to find my words again. And that struggle, that journey, brought me home.

What is art? Questions such as this are seductively simple, on their surface, but churn beneath, with all the violent frenzy of a storm at sea. Art is many things to many people, a subjective perspective on the embodiment of thought reflected, on mediums as diverse as the artists who imprint upon them. When art is embodied not just by the product, but by the creator, is it still art, or just a narcissistic representation, that pales in comparison? When the medium, is the mind of the person who hears it, or sees it, is the artist truly necessary, or is it just stroking the delicate ego of it’s creator? (I was told, that spoken word, the living, breathing side to the poetic arts, was narcissistic,their because it required the artist to be present. I challenged that thought, a challenge that fell on deaf ears, and a closed mind, impervious to grinding of my teeth in rage, amazed, at how someone who I thought was creative, could be so cold and unfazed.) Music is art, it’s sweet seductive sounds trickling through ears and into minds, gently plucking at the heartstrings of it’s listeners. Music, is art, imprinting it’s message by way of dulcet tones and beating drums, making feet tap and bodies move with the rhythm, and mouths form sounds to sing along. Dance, is art, embodying thought and sound in a physical form, in a living breathing element, for those visually inclined to internalize and connect. The swaying forms and delicate shapes convey much that sound could not alone, but is equally lost without it. What is narcissistic about an art, an embodiment of thought reflected, when it is interpreted from a subjective perspective, diluted through filters that skew our perception of what is real, that we can feel. The boxes we put things in, define how we view the world, but they CAN be rebuilt. Our experiences color our perceptions, but, occasionally, they CAN set us free.

When you look at yourself in the mirror, what do you see? Eyes wandering to mismatched imperfections, crisscrossed scars on the skin, and on the mind, what do you find? What do those eyes not see? We wander through life, flitting from moment to moment, remembering only a few of the many meetings we have with each other, much lost on the wings of change. When you look at each other, what do you see? Ripped jeans and tattered t-shirts, short shorts and tank tops frowned on by those up top, not mention the crop tops, not afraid to show some skin because beauty isn’t just skin deep, and a sense of self assurance that is born not of oppression but freedom to express, not repress the knowledge that you are more than just the skin you are in. It is our actions, not our bodies, or the clothes we put on them, that define who we are as a person. Your choices affect how others perceive you, and effect change all around you, so be careful, be calm, show those around you are more than just your tinted skin, or shaggy hair, more than just a pretty face, or a disgrace, a bitter taste in the mouth of those that count you out before you even step up to the plate. You always have a chance, an opportunity to reflect, to project, a new sense of self born not of desperation to fit in, but to begin again, reaching out to those who might not know how. When words born in jest, cause unrest, it becomes a test, of whether it is better to back down or cause distress. This sanctuary of knowledge is no place for poisoned words, slipped between the cracks of already shaky confidence, slicing at the threadbare cords that are sometimes all that are holding someone together. Instead of cutting them off at the knees, why not set them free, give them a chance to be. When we give those around us the chance to spread their wings, we give ourselves a chance to change, to be a better person, instead of worsening an already delicate situation. Remember that words have power, the ability to wound and to heal, for what we feel, isn’t limited to just ourselves, but extends out around us. “I’m lookin’ at the man in the mirror, I’m askin’ him to change his waaays, and no message could be any clearer, if you want to make the world, a better place, take a look at yourself, and make the chaaaange”