We Are Travellers

This is where the heart stops. Halts in its ludicrous ways. For things greater than the power of forgiveness latch onto the inexperienced soul. The night lingers, lures, hatches venomous snakes in a nest of gloomy thought. I cannot keep track. Lose sight of things majestic. The man in the distance stoops, reveals a broken back from the road he has travelled on. My hands are tired, my legs weary. My eyes can hardly see, my heart has endured. I wish to no longer carry on. My life is a burden. I beg you kind stranger to end my suffering. How time has left, cruelly never announced its desire to change, threw the memory into a burning stack of irrelevancies. In this cloud of modern medicine we have forgotten how to treat the heart. Time reveals nothing new to my heart, to your heart. Nothing new. The same betrayal, the same disappointment, the same pains and aches.

With sticks vehemently touching I aim to thaw the icicles on your colourful spirit. Each time you move further from the smoke. The lovely smoke that would circle your every dream, that would tightly hold the ideas you release in utmost secrecy. Never let your heart surrender or be tamed by the necessary. Let the cold heal your sores if cold is what you need. All of a sudden you are released from this prison of the mundane. No breath leaves your mouth, but you emerge like a drowning man, gasping for air. This is your arrival, this is where you will start and without regrets carry on. No man has succeeded, no woman has been able to walk straight under such burden.

Then the night awaits. For we are travellers from another time. We walk with our legs, we see with our souls, we cry with our eyes, we judge with our hearts, we break our backs to arrive at the same gate which never opens. On its heavy belts reads truth. The truest heart opens every lock that has held it shut for centuries. To love these words, to create the meaning. Turning towards the hills, whishing for glacier waters to wash away the sins. The errors of my heart. Our intentions are repelled, there is no other way then back to where we came from. The journey must be taken over and over again. Each generation, each man, each woman must learn the steps by heart. Arrive at the end and hope to find a path beyond the visible road. Only hope.  

This is how we love: like children. Slowly and cautiously we unload but there is nobody to hold us when we collapse from the lightness. Only the weight of the years have kept us going. Now I stare at the dark blue sky, reaching to touch the brightest constellation. It must be easier to fly. I imagine how it would be, tearless and dry. On a balmy ocean top the heart would float until it came to a new land. Once reaching the shore the abundance, like a pirate, would capture the newcomer and hold it prisoner in paradise. Not a better story, not a different ring to the events unfolding, the happenings in chronology.

But the heart tries. Even amidst the constant stops, the forceful halts, it tries to beat to its own rhythm. Burry it and it will rise. This is when we gather strength, take each blow and harness its teaching. This is when we stand in line, like everyone else give in to get something back. For a little while longer we hope we can stay, create, see, breathe.

A Generous Soul

The perplexity with which it all started is slowly winding down. Starting to make sense without the probability of error. Without the confused and zigzagged ideas, the over complication that left you saddened at best. Little light was seen. It looked hopeless for too long. It made you look dumbfounded, left a scar that will surely never heal. You will never heal. You will merely learn to imitate everything you see around you. That will be enough. For a surprisingly long time, that will do. Your tangled knots will not show, will not hurt. You will be celebrated for your achievements and your health. Take those words and burn them. In the furnace of your raging soul, use those words to fuel the response. Use those words to burn.

There you are, standing alone. This is a beautiful sight, how I have missed you. There are no signs of your battles. Your face is smooth. As smooth as the rising sun. I decided to only give, forget my old ways of taking, burry the memories of a selfish existence. What is it that you need? Can I give you what you want? These words will help. Sprinkle them over the bits that have not yet healed. I could fall in love with you in a second. I stop myself, but can only just. You pull me into your ways so dear and I forget to hold back, to look ahead, to remind myself of the pain that always follows. Here you are, in your full beauty, pointing at me, waiting to waltz right over. I take a step towards you, then retreat. Scared, wiser by the scars, quiet since you left me. Silent since you left me.

We resist. With all the power we can think to conjure, we resist the temptation, the chance to change for the worse. I resist you, in turn you resist me. There is me in everyone you meet. We grow stronger with time spent apart. No longer is it thoughtless and intoxicating. No longer do you loose your head. No longer am I blind sighted by your magnificent ways. What you do now is significant. It is important and crucially visible. You will leave your imprint on these malleable souls. They yearn the words, they yearn the notes.

It is simple, easy to navigate. Your task has been set, the path is straight, lined with allies. Draw your compass and head your troops down the road that has been lit. I may or may not await at the end. The journey is what serves the purpose, not the destination. You give your kind soul to these strangers who take all of you. Not even a question, not a flinch in the other direction. You bow in servitude and tightly hold the pole which fixes your roaming feet to that exact place, that particular time. Here I am unable to change you, broken by the lost time and begging for a new beginning. This time I will iron out the creases from your imperfect ways, watch as you leave with a curious smile and give in to the darkness beckoning with the last song sung at your departure. As simple as it ought to be, I leave to find a more generous soul, a better teacher, a kinder companion.

Smile a broken smile

I know you are waiting, precariously drifting. I know you would rather have it different, have it tamed to suit you. You beg for it to be just a little easier, somehow a little less burdensome, a load less heavy to carry. The back is breaking, the spirit is cracking. Only the outline is visible, the silhouette of what once was. You are mistaken, but do not realize it. You are too confident of the whole you perceive as indestructible. At times it is of pivotal importance to let go, surrender, feel the backlash of standing resolute against the storm, feel the physical pain of the beating rain. We must all learn. Learn to immerse ourselves in the quiet sadness, learn to listen to silence, learn to move in stillness.

This is my secret. This is how I see the world, how I make sense of the things happening around me. These things are what make every day real. There is no better propellant; there is nothing more powerful than looming sadness to knock me out of stillness. I surrender to sadness, gracefully bow, hand down all my weapons and allow the truest, kindest human emotion to run through me. And stay. Stay uninterrupted; stay warm, cushioned and homely forever. Capture the heart, capture the head and like an echo bring back the parts that were thought to be lost. I am finally saved. This, what guides me, this, what keeps me on course, this, what teaches me to be better. No other has the power to jerk me out of apathy, to stop the tidal pull.

Pain is an intoxicating feeling, one that makes me want more just as I scream for less. I cherish this dependency, would never change it for anything. Sadness brings meaning, enriches the dull, inconsequential days. It is only through profound sadness that I am moved enough to tilt over and reveal something of myself. Intimate and sad, intimately sad, saddened thus intimate. I am chained, it is a sweet captivity, one that rewards beyond comprehension. One that constantly blesses, sends an invisible welcome home my way.

No other feeling but sadness has the capacity to make me want to live more. The cowards take no notice, hide in well dug holes or badly light caves to escape the wrath of sadness. Not me. Not ever. I offer my all, gladly offer all that I can so that I may get to feel moved, inspired by the deepest most desolate moments that descend like a tight web on the days. The nights. The sadness feeds me like no other. It stirs me the way nothing else can. It whispers ideas, witty remarks, words that sit combined in a unique fashion to amaze. In the mirror of sadness I catch a glimpse of my true self. I see a smile, somehow broken, weak, trying to hide. I see a broken smile ready to take on the world, ready to admit that only sadness makes sense. Only sadness did ever make sense.

Sing All The Songs

In my heart there is constant disdain. At times too much, at times too hurtful. Feeble men and feeble doings pass, I care not even to send a flinch their way. I never flinch at your words or at your outside, the deceiving words or the mockable expressions. All these leave me untouched, unmoved, uninspired. Spiteful mannerism, hateful words that bubble out of your mouth and yet you are celebrated. You are paraded in your plastic chair that you believe is a throne made out of gold. I am not fooled. To me you are just weak, exactly what you were before you drenched your crippled soul in the murky pool of power. If this is how you succeed, then I am grateful to never rise above the limits of my abilities, never dig a mine to expose my talents, never clad my fragile soul with words that are untrue, unfaithful.

The anger brings a realization anew: the tide may cover, the moon may expose. Covered I wish to remain, fearful to be exposed. I let you in but you only catch a glimpse then you must leave, hurry along and never talk of what you have seen.  In all your dishonesty, in the ways of the world which you have so masterfully adopted, there is no place for a truthful voice. You have lost yourself, but I never want to lose the parts of me which are most valuable. These parts are the air to my lungs, they pump the luscious blood of my spirit. In this world humility is dying a painful, coarse, despicably torturous death. With each word, with each deed you administer yet another blow, yet another stab to the already slowed heart of the world. Precious few heal, the vast majority destroy. The evil laughter accompanies and the devil sits in your tone of voice, lurks each time you speak. One word of yours kills two of mine. That is how we must live, I will sacrifice, spit at the thought, shrivel eventually in the poisonous pool of your lies.

It is night. You retreat; you never liked the dark for it brought little satisfaction. It is night and I revel in these short times, these ever shortening times that I have in a world where truth rules. Night is when truth rules, when humility gets a moment’s relief from the constant torment. Night is when men and women all over the world sit in inspiration, create the stuff of dreams. They dream colour. They dream oceans and forests with endless music. They dream words that send unstoppable waves to wipe out hypocrisy. They dream figures that appear invisible in the daylight. They are creators, healers, bringers of joy. They are tellers of the truth. They burn even the thought of your existence with one glimpse. You cannot stand the dark and now it is night. I forget the destroyers and think of only the healers. I am in awe only when things born in the night appear. They litter my path and give me hope, courage to march on despite the ugly surrounding my every move. You creators behold endless beauty, undying humility. You creators hold the pieces together, plant seeds of life in desolate lands that have turned to deserts. You creators save and make rivers once run dry, flow with boundless fresh waters.  

I hear the thumping, I am me again. Do not try to break me, I bend for no one except the ones I love. I would rather slowly vanish in the dark than to live your life of lies in the light. And I do slowly vanish, with each day grow fainter, less glossy. The night bathes me, nurtures the weary parts, balms the doubts and soothes the questions that pull me closer to the light. But the night is short and your webbing powers spread uncontrollably. I see my fateful end. Until then I turn to creators for inspiration, for hope, for courage to take the fight that I feel I must take. In awe every moment I see the creations. The notes nail my soul to the ground. The words tie my heart to the places I have never known. The colours trap my head in circumstances that teach me to be content.

This is what you do to me. This is what your ways have done to me. This is why I am only awed by those who create. This is why I demand to hear all the songs, why at all times you must sing all your songs. They might just help rid these suspecting spirits of the ways of the untruthful man.