Being Loved In The Cleansing Light of Blackness

Moving back to Chicago has been a good thing for me, it has brought me a measure of peace, affirmation.

Like being christened, I suppose; sacred, right, belonging.

One can never forget the feeling of being loved by one’s folks, the looks of care and wonder. The respect we offer each other between the unspoken words of our struggle. The regal pain, the heartache, and the hope we keep lit in our fiery hearts.

I am them, and they are me.

Feels so good to be home.

And yes it is true, you never miss your water until the well runs dry.

I live with magical people, the kind whose looks can melt you, whose walks can carry you, whose smiles can warm you like eating oatmeal on a cold morning when the hawk is out.

No matter the White noise, no matter with any of it; the rantings and ravings of folks who feel disgusted and in their disgust then want you to feel disgusted.  And when you don’t feel the level of their disgust you become one of the people that disgust them.

Aint got time for it.

I’m too busy rolling in the savory, cleansing light of blackness.

 

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