these precious gems below my feet

Every day counts. It always has. Every single day from the beginning. Not just the hours passing in vain, not just empty minutes or meaningless seconds. Every day has importance, significance, much more than is believed. The words muttered, the colours seen, the stillness of a Sunday afternoon. The busyness of each morning, the rituals performed on work days, then rest days. Each day the moon grows fatter. Then with clockwork precision looses all its weight to appear thin and frail. The sun migrates from one end of the day to the other. Each direction bears its beautiful light. Repetition heals the suspecting soul, heals each broken promise. Then start again.
 

At times I am tired, worn down by the weight of each passing moment. Some moments elevate, carry the spirit to higher ground: float weightlessly. The world seems bigger, no problem unconquerable. These moments build days, build memories, build on the notion that there is constant urgency in how life must be lived. There is no time to waste. No time to waste on lovers who do not love. There can never be time wasted on tasks that numb the spirit. It becomes sinful to stay bound to places where the imagination cannot soar. It will not go unpunished if desires remain bound in neat packaging, remain hidden in secret corners. There are deeds that must be done, there are places that must be seen, there is freedom that must be conquered. There is real urgency in the now.

See how perfect this moment is. There is me on one side, there is you on the other. Between us is the deep, dark, mesmerizing river. There are little lights that guide my heart home. This land keeps me true to all that I have imagined long ago. Sometimes I break, but I break only by the beauty that my heart cannot take. Then you show yourself in full light, then in heavy dark. Every time I fight to hold back the tears. No other has had me fall in love so deep.

We fight the roots, cut them mercilessly with well sharpened axes, with pocket knives we keep for any occasion. Never mind the roots that hug rocks, that fight to keep their trees upright in the most hostile environments. The roots you have grown are young, can easily be ripped from the soil. Mine are better formed, sturdy, accountable for the unreasonable amount of love carried to my heart. Vessels through which the past tries to stay the past. Then a great thunder reveals the power of destruction. With rain and lightning these tall ornaments of history are threatened, their stories possibly ending. The winds ripping through the leaves, the howling storm attacking its still targets. We are all unprotected, unsheltered from such evil, senseless battering. Lean left and right, tangle the bald branches, latch on, sway to keep straight. There is a faint murmur, quiet chanting. The voices slowly grow stronger, more confident. The winds are still too loud and the chorus of the unruffled victims are swallowed whole. There in no reason not to beat on. Rhythmic succession of the same words. It is cold, the rain is beating down hard, the winds are like glass walls: impenetrable. Hear this sound, yell these words, use your voice, use the power in your voice. Yell as loud as you can: keep the earth below my feet!

Each day counts, counts more than the one before. The things you see are precious; the ones you love are you. Your roots are to be planted, nurtured. Everything you do must echo urgency for there is little time to waste. I must continue for there is little of my time to waste.

Ramses and Prometheus

These rulers of forgotten lands. Universes above and below. These rulers of fictitious savagery, real beasts of flesh and blood. Held out power like a high wire. Waited for mortals to fall to their sudden deaths. In the dark. In the dark ages of blinding fear. In their palms no flower ever blossomed. Roaring giants moving earth and sky alike. One hiding behind a mask, glorified. One through sheer force capturing life, locking the secret, tight. The thunder shakes the memories, shakes the ancient from deep sleep. Once more we yell to the adhering power you held. Search the flame, search the sun. Bend endlessly, reach with exuberance.

Then came the never ending tears. Washed away the memory of your existence. Which god did you say you were? The clerics became the sceptics, those that once served became rulers themselves. This is how power migrates. From one tyrant to the other. Inside we are all the same. In our unappeasable hatred we yell obscenities, words that curse your existence, doubt your divine power. Casually that which you provide is thrown back at you. Stealing from the gods made easy with an unabashed conscience. We laugh at fear and hold our own thought to a mystical standard. Every man is a god, every thought a teaching. This is when we are equal. Fuck you, Prometheus. Fuck you, Ramses. No god of ancient Greece, no god of Egypt’s sun tells us what to do.

When will we ever learn? Have you felt it too? Felt that those who speak today have no words of truth? No kindness, no wisdom to guide the wandering spirits. Those who claim that they are the likes of graceful gods of the past, kind rulers of ancient worlds are nothing more but deceiving, shrivelled souls. Liars. They are not builders of monumental ornaments nor are they keepers of warming elixirs to sooth the bruises. In these times we must brace ourselves. The lights are dimming, the heat is slowly disappearing. Dress the soul with warmness, or else it will catch its death. Not in the unending desert. Not in the mountains that reach the sun itself. Not when we have a protector from sky to earth, sea to sand!

I cannot move you. You play with fire, you play with sand. Each god to its own. Each tyrant to its own methods of tyranny. I cannot erase the memory of Ramses, of Prometheus. There you were, holding the flame. Your magnificent torso glowing in an orange hue. The wind helping you keep the fire alive. Then the wink and I see you reach down to hand us the flame. It was that easy? Then the pain to endure. In the backdrop of the setting sun, with the Nile quietly flowing there appeared the familiar coloured scenery. Homogenously light. With one hand held out hundreds fell to their deaths or found themselves elevated. You were no just ruler, no accomplice to the greatness of the human spirit. You have moved me Prometheus. You have moved me Ramses.

Had we known the end, we would not have seen sense in the beginning. We no longer know how to move blocks of rock with our bare hands. We will never set the world on fire. In this fading light we now know what we have learnt from you. To endure. To question. To create. To find adventure in discovery. To never break under the weight of responsibility. To burn always Prometheus. To build always Ramses.

My love, the sea

There is a knot in my stomach. The words you say, the luminous way you enter and leave, the magical nonchalance with which you speak to me leaves me in despair. Wanting more, wishing for less. I hang on until I can bear. Could you continue until the night descends? Just until I am carried to peaceful sleep. Then stay. Stay to see the morning light.

I was drawn to you with such visceral force that left me unable to competently reason. Falling on soft autumn grass. You warned me and in turn I warned myself. The streets were empty, there was not a soul to bear witness to our beginning. A coincidence maybe, a planned meeting, the un-provable, the mesmerizing sky that hung unbelievably low that night. You offered to guide me. Blindfolded I jumped after you. Here is what we call the human heart. It beats relentlessly for years before one day it decides to stop. It has the capacity to pump blood and circulate it around the body. There are attributes the heart has which are hard to explain. It beats more per minute than you could imagine. It is a machine that requires no battery. Sometimes the heart learns to transcend the metaphysical realm and freely lets go. Never have I heard such a sweet voice, such seductive words. I did not know how to let go, did not how to control my heart. I wanted to rip it out of my chest and hand it to you, still warm, still beating. Then I felt a sharp pain and in all my flaws, I was see-through, I was yours.

The soul can seldom be tricked, yours never bowed to me. Time beat on mercilessly and slowly its pendulum swayed away from our unbreakable two. You were always wondrous, elusive, with an air of righteousness about you. I watched in amazement, likened myself to a chosen, a special stranger hanging by a moment with you. But then I was special no more and you were suddenly gone. Disappeared into the moment. I could no longer follow.

Now there is a knot in my stomach. I see you in the faces of strangers I have never seen before. Believe I see you walking far off in the distance, a faint wink, a blurry outline of a man that could be you. Could have been you. I see you in clear skies, in unending seas. I hear your love calling with each beat my heart beats. Then it whispers and grows silent. You no longer call, I have long ceased to heed.

If these nights cooling suit you, reverse your abrupt leave and wait for the morning light with me. If these nights suit you. Just until I am carried to sleep.

The Bearable Lightness

Somehow these streets welcomed me. After such a long time, after so many instances of disappointment, after betrayals and shameless lies, these streets could still forgive. They may be filthy, ugly, they may be nothing of importance. They may be insignificant in their position, they may be one way or not, cobbled or concrete, lined with trees, lovely or not. They may be the stuff of dreams, they may only be a means of getting to a brighter, bigger, prettier part of town, but they accept, know how to let go of a grudge. They sooth, offer comfort to brokenness. Gently I let go, timidly I surrender. Close my eyes and thank these holders of ancient monuments that I am allowed to roam freely. That I am given their blessing, that I can call this city my home. I will surely leave, but I am certain I will come back. Each time come back with more love.

In my own little quiet way I sing a eulogy. Salute the triumph of the average man. Pray for peace to grace the ways of the storming heart. I wish to be shown the parts that remain hidden so oft. Just for as long as I am still here. Just for now. The heavens ring loud of the plans which will see me leave. Silently slip, share a new place, learn to make peace with new faces, new streets. You feel secure, grounded where you are. In the process of leaving there are instances of stillness. An almost invisible movement steers you towards the end. Undenied, unseen, unending motion.

So come close. Touch these weary hands. Hold them so there is no reason to take flight. I wait patiently. I wait in anticipation, unable to bear the excitement much longer. Any word that you have tamed sounds true to me. Lie the stars off the sky, just lie. Yet you stay silent, hide the things that my heart needs to see. My steps become lighter, I am no longer chained. Starting to lose the burden. Starting to feel the weight of my footprints. I move away from you, I am leaving. The traces left behind will not represent who I was, who you were. They are records of moments that knew lighter times. Records of instances that burn.

In the instance of betrayal there are these kind streets, this kind city that holds me. This city that knows me. Knows me quiet, knows me absent, knows me burdened with sadness. Knows my worries and knows the fears I hold. Knows me bearing lightness, bearing weight. Knows me leaving but every time convinces me to stay. Every balmy summer night roots me further, every snow capped church steeple lets out a prayer for my wandering soul. I cannot stay forever, I cannot stay for long. This time I have now, I will give it to no one but my wonderful city of love. My wonderful carrier of lighter dreams, my one constant companion who makes being bearable. These songs fly, the lightness becomes desired, bearable. After the being we expect the lightness to fall to these bearable sounds.