For a long time, I’ve been silent…a prisoner of my thoughts. Thoughts about
you. Her. Them. Him. Blurred lines…the zeitgeist of a lonely planet.
This endless news cycle… wheels of deception. You’ve no doubt heard of this before…
The concept of prisons of the mind and so on? There’s truly nothing new under the sun. Every view I’ve tried to spin comes back to me the same way…nothing new.

But still, there is a sense of familiarity. In the literary world, the mind plays
way more tricks than in the real world. Clichés and tropes abound…written mumbo jumbo like so much voodoo wordplay. Yes, prisons I’m familiar with…of the mind
that is. I wrote about them a few times. But I didn’t realize until just now
how the idea still permeates my thought process. For example, these days I
find myself holding onto hope. Surrounding myself with it like a moth-eaten
favorite blanket.

Yes, maybe I’m a prisoner of hope. After all, our thoughts swirl around so
many things…why can’t hope be a prison? This room feels like one. And if it
is, then what else is there? What do I have to hold on to? What about need?
Is “Need” a prison? Is longing? Is sex or death? And what about hope? Do you
even care? Am I hopeless in my hope for a change to finally occur? Too many
questions in an opening paragraph…not enough for a eulogy… far too much
for an epitaph. A blur of words with hazy facts. Lazy to a fault. I’ll leave it
there for now. Speaking of the here and now, it seems I’ve got more time to
ramble…

This room is gray and nondescript. But that’s a slip of the tongue because
the story clearly began somewhere down the road, not here. Between white
lines and yellow, exit signs of green, and mechanical voices on rental car radios.
Threatening forecasts and storms we left behind. Summer sun and better days
we’ve seen. Last week, we sat at Lido Beach on a blanket full of promises, a
sage green umbrella shading that same mischievous sun…the one you thought
you owned. Along with a moon, you once called a friend. Forecast and threats
of inclement weather. Yes, a harbinger that predicted trouble well in advance.
Yes, a storm was coming. Or was it here all along? Lyrics in a Whitaker
song, “Thunder without the Storm.” ‘What do you call a last call? When should
you let go?” I should have known when you said that was your favorite song.

Be that as it may, we can’t figure out the journey ahead of time…. we have
to go down the path with the inherent knowledge that there could be a crash
or three or four, caused by fate, by you, or by me. Quite simply, we have to
step into the darkness sometimes. Feel our way with words, especially when
love is blind. In time, we find shelter, or we become someone else’s shelter.
We want to feel safe against the storms of life and those of our own making.

You looked at me that way; I saw you much the same. Blaming when I failed to keep records of our crimes. Ammunition for future fights. Escaping into our de- desires,
flashlights glow, replacing fire. Foundations born of sand; pretty castles built
on stilts. More a place to pay our bills…fill our plates with future dreams,
lovers’ schemes, and secret friends. And in the end, pretending we are lovers
on refrain. Longing for contrition, haunted by the memory of rain.

TM DiSarro
©2026 TM DiSarro / MindScapes Publishing
From: THE MEMORY OF RAIN ( Available on Amazon)