Silent Movie

Blessed cursed memories!
Are my recollections correct
or only tainted by my longing for
what was and what is
and what could be?
Only those black and white
silent films of
yesteryear
that captured my
life on
faster-than-life reels
can tell.

Funny how time
plays its own tricks
on a mind
bent on
melancholy,
wholly devoted to
finding something miraculous
in what was likely
just one in
a zillion
other stories
written in history.

Nothing special.
Nothing worth
writing about,
crying about.
And yet it was.
It was glorious,
momentous,
almost sacred.
It was blessed.
Reading my journals,
my recollections,
proves it.

But no one else
will ever know.
Only those of us
who were there.
We lived the laughter
and fullness
and spiritual journey
and struggle
and heartache
and endless striving
for victory,
where few could be had.

Or were there more
successes than failures?
Not everything can be
measured and quantified
in some common
meaningful way.
We can only look
inside, and try
to see something there
that wasn’t there before,
sound and music, and
not a silent movie.