From Labor Day by Devin Pavlischak, 2016 ©
“My name whether you know it or not is Devin Pavlischak and I have a burden, a reckless gift, and a story to tell. I hope you are willing to listen.”
Today is Labor Day, a day of labor, a day of friends and healthy companions. Today as I got out of bed, looked in the mirror in the bathroom, I saw what anyone might see… a little too much. The slight of an aging face and the eyes growing shallow. Any shirt would do today, any pair of pants, just another pair of socks and the same haircut fashioned in the same wavy design. The only difference about it all was that I was a day older on Labor Day.
There was an ominous overcast that swallowed up parts of the sky, where sky blue and dark gray met and mended together. I hope you know what it looks like, maybe I can describe it well enough to bring you here for just a moment, to make you feel as I do, maybe then I’d have a better understanding of others. Perhaps I could look up at those puffy clouds and wish, maybe wonder what it’s like to be completely weightless, to unburden the necessity of any and all weight. If I do ever find a way to make an impression on the world as best as I can, then I might make it as light as I can, maybe people will remember it better that way, maybe I’ll find a new start in something I already know.
Labor Day is what I knew, what I thought after all that time, vague indecencies of lies and self-hatred would bring us all together, family, friends, stress, and vague notions of worried faces. There was too much to process and my time was wasted as I thought and thought, obsessing over the time wasted this morning. When I climbed out of bed and looked into that mirror, the reckless burden climbed about my bones and brought my face to life, calling for the story to go on, summoning my hands to write and my words to be called into personal judgement. Listening to the sounds around me and the vast noises emptying into my ears. The slow thought of my circumstances dancing around me, taunting, prodding, poking me with words that I have to write.
Labor Day feels warm, it rains slightly sprinkling, the constant clouds moving about and I feel the sun on my face, the heat, the overbearing heat weighing down on my body. To this I explain there is no place too sunny when winter finally comes, there is no real want for summer heat until the heat has all gone away. As September slowly slips through our grasp, the season changes, the love for all tangible life becomes a calendar date and the world revolves around it. I feel the slow commitment to things already finished, already confirmed. The sun sets, it rises, books are written, people are alive before they are gone, and most of all, experience after experience that every living thing may go through has already happened to something or someone else. There are no new ideas, only new people who are outdated and uncalled for opportune devices like walking and breathing. Labor Day felt all the same.
You want an answer, you want the true nature of my every day. I felt the day pass like the day was running from me, I chased it for as long as I could before it ran out of sight. I lost the light of the morning long before the night came. That was all, that was it and here I am writing about the thought of it all leaving, what a sham to lose a day in labor lost to love. It was forbidden and forgotten like the morning dew in august, which never came. This is the story from Labor Day.