Jon Luke

"There lives a wonderful poet, occupying all the space in my mind, he only visits after midnight, when the city's cacophony subsides... and the nocturnal silence resides.

His name is John Luke. He crafts sonnets with my inner voice, weaving a tapestry of flowing stories, that transport me to outer space. I cease to be Contessa, instead, I become..

The Observer,

The Listener,

The Witness to his brilliance...

Inspiration, Contemplation, and Epiphanies intertwined.

Yet, I find myself paralyzed, unable to move, to write. So, I try to remember with all my might. That's when Jon Luke declares he wants to fight, to wrestle with my memories.

"If you don't flow with me, then I will force you to remember" Jon says with a mischievous grin.

What was once a beautiful imagining fades into a nostalgic re-happening. I'm 10 years old, standing in the driveway, with my brand new purple bike, a symbol of freedom and joy. But the memory morphs, like a kaleidoscope, into a painful recollection of bullying, of being teased by neighbor kids, and the sting of embarrassment. As the memories flash by, like an old-fashioned camera, each picture representing a time in my life where I rejected my true self, I feel a sense of regret and longing.

"Ok, fuck, I get the point, Jon Luke!" I exclaim, trying to reason with him in my mind. Desperately, I want to return to the flow of his beautiful poems, to bask in the beauty of his imagination.

"You think you do, but you've only just begun" Jon Luke says calmly, his voice floating like breeze on a summer day.

"I wasted so many opportunities to be my true unapologetic, authentic self" I think, frustration etched on my face.

"True, but not the point" Jon Luke pauses, allowing a mental click reaction between us.

"Control and comprehension" we both hear, the words hanging in the air like a challenge.

" Ok, you can have control just... please, no more lessons from childhood" I plead, "I just want to relax, listening to one of your beautiful poems." 

Still not the point" Jon Luke replies, his voice firm but gentle.

I try to refocus my attention on the TV, but another vision appears, like a specter. I'm 75 years old, my body fragile, my hand startling me with its crinkliness. I'm a wilted flower, gone sour.  I'm desperate for comfort, for someone, anyone. But I'm alone, even John Luke is absent. A terrifying dread fills my body, and I'm frozen in fear, unable to escape.

"Why did you take me there, it was horrible" I cry out, once I return to myself.

"You still think I'm in control? You are the captain of this ship, little miss" Jon Luke says, his voice a gentle reminder. "We can ride the waves of the past, catching memories and lessons. Or we can swim through hypothetical futures, to unlock desires and fears." He pauses, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "My favorite has always been flowing with the collective imagination."

"I'm the navigation! I am the receiver. The observer and the storyteller! I'm always the control or lack of it. It is me that comprehends... I am you, Jon Luke!" I exclaim, a sense of triumph and understanding washing over me.

"Now that's the point!" Jon Luke says, a smile spreading across his face.

"So, tell me, Jon Luke, how do I create such beautiful stories, poetry, and music... so effortlessly, in my mind?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"Once you made me the author, you no longer had to try to do a good job or feel responsible in any way, even when the stories are no good" Jon Luke replies, his voice a gentle whisper. "You could just sit back... let go... letting the inspiration flow through you organically."

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