Making up for lost time.
For years I forgot what it means to be a kid,
and to me this is it —
lacing up my shoes and stepping into the night to
go and play a game, lose myself for a while.

There are cars on the highway.
A mist shrouds the streetlights that
illuminate my path towards the park.
I hear the satisfying sound of tennis balls
springing off rackets.
Voices echo.
A man on the grass runs football plays
with a group of kids. I like that.
What better way to spend your free time than by helping
kids have fun, make friends, and get better at a game.
Those impressions stay with us.

I forgot what it’s like,
the park at night,
like being young, when nothing much matters
but school and friends
and if the court had a light —
we grow up and forget what it means to play.
I’ve come full circle,
back on the basketball court
shooting like
a kid again. Running drills.
I wanna get better.
This feels good, the rhythm of the dribble
and the sweat on my skin.
Dudes these days
wanna live forever.
Fuck, man. To live forever takes away the meaning
in our lives, cause it’s the imperfection
of it all that makes me wanna be alive.

I’m trying to remember what it means
to fall,
scraped knees, a bruised hip, and in my
hands a basketball.
I’m tired of all this striving for perfection.
It’s killing us.
We’ve forgotten what it means to
have no answers to our questions.

Bein’ kids.
When we would go outside and play
without caring if it’s improving our
physique in some way.

Forget the counting calories.
Phones on our wrists.
Counting steps not to get lost, but to remind ourselves
that we’ve gone somewhere.
I miss being lost.
The joy of the unknown.
Judge our worth by the hearts,
the red pings on our phones.
What happened to the daze
of a day spent alone,
A mission to arrive on the doorstep of
my home.

Man, I wanna let go of all this needing to know
’cause there’s so much more than
we can understand about
the mind and the spirit and the
heart and the soul.

Do you remember how it felt
to step into the night?
No care in the world,
dirt beneath your fingertips,
grass-stained shorts,
a fire in your belly and a glimmer
in your eye —
other things seem
important now.
But a bird doesn’t care how it looks
when it flies.