The Festival

So overdue. You had to keep from crying when you told yourself that it was really nice. You will be making new plans once back from yourself and you will try to arrange everything so you’re back here for the birthday of what’s possible. You cried because you were leaving and you just didn’t want to.

You’re heading back to yourself tomorrow after being down or up over the weekend for the festival of letters. You’ll let yourself know just as soon as you know what your appointment schedule and your flight plans are. You were really you. Just to see everything. Everyone is writing letters, even you. Oh, it feels almost selfish to say anything. Happy birthday to all that’s possible.

You are so unbelievable, a privilege to have poetry in the middle of an ocean of words. A do-over. You are in the front seat again, and maybe the person asked about the time. You were just so unbelievably alive by yourself, and with the music, and with the sounds of the world. And the words you brought in with you just dancing about wishing you were something else. You are so pretty good, also pretty by the standards of the time. The people you loved got something, and you wanted to know.

And maybe the person asked about the time, but you were a clock on the wall. Nobody was listening.

Listen to yourself. The lone book. On the bookshelf. On the wall. Flickering. Not quite alive but definitely still a book on a bookshelf and not another light source. You might need something. You might need everything. You might need anyone.

The more believable person with a thousand dreams would be the choice of most. But choosing is for the fools, the wise, the wealthy, and anybody significantly less indecisive than yourself.

You made sure that you aren’t leaving something important behind, right?

But you weren’t sure you actually preferred it. Thirty minutes later you were yourself again and that was that. Maybe even different types of yourself. On the one hand, your choice seemed simple. You rushed out the door, grabbing anything and everything you could think of as a thing.

People need things. People need some things sometimes. Some things are wonderful. Some things are pretty by the standards of the time.

It was a question really of which of the two you preferred. You held onto plenty of words during your life, but this moment was different. This moment you were different. It was an easy choice. Or when it dawned on you that you had forgotten the most important thing after all. You found yourself holding back. And you drove off into the lines, or maybe somewhere in between some. Your safe choice.

Suitcases in strange lines all by your side, you pay no heed to the light, the books, or the world.

You pay no heed to the envelopes, the stamps, or the ticket stubs. Would you consider yourself to be a souvenir from the festival of letters, also? You could sit together with your things, collecting dust and ideas on the shelves of time.

You were the type of secret that could laugh away at your insides if you forgot to tell the truth.

A flickering book, a moment of certainty, a couple of words behind everyone else, what does that person say? Everything was thrown into your car as you drove off.

You are walking down the street again and with your arms outstretched and your mind everywhere. Do you even have a plan?

There are different types of secrets, different types of people too. There was no time to double-check yourself. There was no time to be yourself. There was no time.

Elan Radousky enjoys writing poetry, juggling objects, and most types of fruits and vegetables. His poems have appeared in Eunoia Review, Right Hand Pointing, and One Sentence Poems. Some of Elan’s poetry (and comics) can be discovered over at his website.

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