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Ms. Sunshine

Growing Up

By Christian LeePublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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There’s a scratched up, medium-sized table in my bedroom. It stands next to my bed, and beneath that is my pink yoga mat. Pink is my second favorite color (I think we all have more than one favorite type). Yellow comes first for me. Thus there is Ms. Sunshine.

It’s indeed a metaphor-precious, unequivocal, a kind of deity we idealize beyond temperature. For a poet that is a great deal. Personally, I grew up mostly single, aloof, but aware of the gravity of romantic entitlement. And that means something in its own way, in light of my character. And there is neither negative nor positive energy moving in thought here. The observation simply tells me about a consistency in my predisposition, specifically my habit(s) in decision-making. Generally speaking, I have much to learn.

So Ms. Sunshine is none other than the sun herself. She reminds me of infinitesimal things, even infinitesimals’ themselves. My old and not so shabby table is mostly yellow. Keeping my favorite colors’ in proximity is consoling. But the sun reminds me of all that I dream about: I’d like to make an artistic fusion with drums and poetry one day. Both have been dominating crafts of mine for over a decade, and like a new pet in the house there comes room for jealousy. But this implies the nature of my current predicament. I’m working on better organizing my thoughts into both crafts without compromising one or the other. I’m practical, but only to a degree, and never considered gauging where I stand among the two. Perhaps it’s fear of realizing I “must” let go of one of them.

But back to Ms. Sunshine. She speaks to me with eloquence I can fathom if only I stand or sit before her long enough-in silence. Even in and of the moon, a unique counterpart to evening; this is how much I love poetry, that it prods me to rhythm, a kind of music, a place where sound is felt differently. Such a measure of love isn’t worth measuring. As for drums, of a distinct class from literature and all, the sun first brought that upon me. That was my first kiss. But we broke up before I turned the number of luck. The details of that I won’t disclose, but when we met again I could feel how upset she was with me, how upset I was with myself. It was a long episode of frustration, tug-o-war with a deeper self that wanted to be free, in the form of self-expression-the whole mental hysteria hankered me in and out of sleep for nearly a decade. Coming to terms with myself, where I was in the social world at the time I was in college, I could see how “far behind” I was in musicianship. But when I discovered I wasn’t ready for particular responsibilities poetry came in the picture, except it erected itself...that is to say: Ms. Sunshine lifted her voice again.

In my early twenties’, where most of this pain began, I shared scattered and unclear writings' with my first English professor. That’s when Ms. Sunshine merely tickled me into writing. But the comfort solidified with my professor and my personal view of life. We identify as atheists. At the time, more than a little lost, and in deep need of answers, the sun was there right when I needed her. For the record though, I was writing bad poetry. Not “bad” in a moral sense, but in need of constructive criticism. My professor inspired me to write my first and still unedited poem: ‘A Sense of Belonging.’ That was just what I needed at the time.

Two ladies were sent me by a greater pulchritude. For eleven years I have stood by the decision to treat the two as daughters. I like to think of them as twins. They have grown so well with me all this time. Perhaps this is why letting go of either feels impossible. There is history in chemistry, and not even that we have spent much time together, but that when I feel a stranger to them (in the form of not having a good day, or some mental disruption in thought processing) it seems that nature or the nature of things is at mischief…

Good days', bad days'. What keeps me grounded and tenacious is Ms. Sunshine. A new day with her isn’t enough however. Falling into meditation refurbishes my sense for the sublime. But I must be thinking of her or the method won’t be effective, and I would feel dismembered instead of disillusioned to enlightenment.

I’m a firm believer in myself, but I am also afraid, shy about things one wouldn’t expect me to be shy about. And as a serious thinker, I still tremble at the knees when I hear one say fear isn’t real. It is as real as terror. It is responsive to it. It’s an emotion I’ve learned to not see as an enemy but treat as one if I’m to get ahead in the world as much as I dream. Maintaining the maintenance surrounding the cultivation of love for two distinct crafts has been a tough task. Because I refuse to let go of either I make them worth my time. In my mental clock there forever remains the light of day, Ms. Sunshine.

But here's a poem of mine I think beautifully summarizes all aforementioned. It’s called ‘Eternity in Heartstrings’...

I could move to the sun

Beacon and beat.

I could move,

in check on hatred,

And trust the escapade.

so time strays, so rules change

But I could move with them:

Prince, princess, and principle;

‘Crescendo!’ the whisperings’,

Shrill shadows of

sound.

How deep is living-;

Buried, tyrannical, distant?

High east rests the golden disc

Nigh on sleep it dwells,

The selfsame song strums in blood.

crafts
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About the Creator

Christian Lee

My nom de plume is Lee Arachnid; think: spider-poet. Here you will find non-fiction and poetry. I interweave elements of nature and my personal experience into uniquely crafted stories. I love idleness, Felidae, literature, and soundscapes.

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