San Francisco in July
Towards the ending weeks of last month, I went out to San Francisco for a work trip; after work hours I wandered on-foot into local bookstores, hiked upon hills, came across community gardens, and watched out onto the city. I was fully entertained, though requesting dinner reservations for one.
I remember how I use to pull away from solitude, how it was a space to abuse my body and cycle the cognition my mind would stammer about my existence. I didn’t know then what I know now, as time and age often matures into a sweeter standing.
Present day dwellings, solitude is an opportunity to take an unfiltered open-eyed look at my intentions and actions, the habits that my mind instantly acts upon. This is the act in which has enabled me to grow comfortable with being alone, for this practice is one that I try to often pulse. I find enjoyment in analyzing how and why I react to circumstances, and its realignment.
Since I was away for a little over a week, this ensued as a fluid flow throughout the trip's duration. Several traits that I didn’t know that I had surfaced to eye-level—both the beautiful and the brutal.
I discovered that I love on others more than I think that I do, and that I always aim to stay in a state of stillness. I also found that I had subconsciously linked the contrast of my life from yesterday to today as a currency to salvation; a fraudulent thought that had been utilized to chip away at forgiveness for myself for the past few months.
I’m sitting next to myself, a mirror—black kerchief folded and knotted around my neck, brown hair slighting spilling over my shoulders.
My heart is pooling in grace and mercy, forgiveness and favor. I will always be in a state of gratitude, giving thanks for conviction, and the stillness that softly speaks truth.
• • •
j u l y 2 3
Misson & 18th
I sit among the street vendors
selling soggy dried books and soiled t-shirts,
we engage in conversation.
I look out and watch;
engaging in this air,
traveling towards their next destination.
The younger man with
baggy jeans, and black sunglasses
tugging at the collar of his shirt.
The older woman crossing the street,
pushing her daughter in her stroller,
dodging the street’s cracks and holes.
The ‘clean fuel bus’ slides across the skyward strings,
holding several hundred hearts a day,
their heads jounce in unison
to the awry asphalt.
The stranger wandering,
not familiar to a smile,
though we smile anyways.
Melted posters paper-mâché
the sides of the telephone poles,
and wooden walls are covered
in metal diamond patterns,
akin to all,
foreign to none.
• • •
j u l y 2 5
Atop a red rocked hill,
overlooking San Francisco in July,
where cities and sky intertwine;
pastel houses stacked,
buildings climb high.
The wind is heavy here,
eager to even take this pen and paper away,
to have me only captivated by its whirl,
for it has a jealous mind.
fog rolling in,
dust becomes unsettled.
Neither weak are the mountains
nor my bones;
the red rocks
and my blue blood.
• • •
j u l y 2 7
This week has been
gold purified by fire;
tried and tested—
Nothing on this earth
or take away
We will always be guided to light,
as long as we open our eyes.