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.