Softly unspoken

These things are better kept unsaid, locked away, erased so as to never cause hurt. Because they might. If they have to be kept with such effort at bay, if they bubble over with just the hint of release, then they will shoot out and cause minor cuts, deeper bruises to bystanders. Uncontrollably lash from their cage, reek havoc and chaos, dirty the carpet with blood stains. They cannot be tamed, were never laid to rest, never acquainted themselves with peace. You are the keeper, harbourer, breeding ground for their fury. You drag and pull, you labour over the motions, meticulously make sure never to leave anything behind. It weighs you down, almost unable to move. The blinding anger propels you further ahead, unaware of the burden you are carrying. Year after year. Your heart slowly weakens, your soul almost disappeared. Your yells are faint whispers, your words insincere, your future bleak if visible at all.  

The words themselves are not to blame. Neither is the force with which they leave your mouth. Forgiveness takes a trained soul to administer: I am not trained and not wise enough. Not accepting or gentle enough. Not caring or honed in my sensitivity towards you. We stand here, face to face, with warring words cutting into our souls. Nothing to sooth the pain, no second hand to turn faster, ease the burning, excruciating ache. The timing is unfortunate, the deed barely forgivable, yet you continue. Misconceptions cloud your judgement, the nights that you cry through are not silent at all. I am now motionless, soundless, waiting for your furious freedom to leave this room. Peace comes too slow.

Mind me not, I will disregard you from now on. My way is silent and still. My soul when hurt, heals slowly. I would rather stay unspoken, unseen. The echoes you hear are from the shrinking hearts of those you have hurt along the way. They send the words back to you, I hurt too. Because I do and because you do. We both do. We both hurt despite every effort to heal naturally. I will not survive another attack like this, you cannot win another battle waged against your crippled soul. We will both perish, clad in the black stench of death, unrecognisable to ourselves.

Here is where it ends, where it stops. I will turn to silence while you turn away, decorate the words that hurt with those that love. Maybe, just maybe there will come a moment when you can let go and I can finally forgive.

If I had a boat

Luring these murky waters still seem to be: endlessly patient, shorelessly unpredictable. One thing is for certain, these waters can hold, even hide every secret. They have and hold, they demand to possess all sacred, shameful or valiant traces of acts done to one another. Your shaky wooden boat rocks on the back of this merciful giant. Leaks appear, yet you stay calm. Drifting. No panicked haste trying to find dry land. You are drifting. In this blissful state, the state of helplessness there is only one way to survive: let go of everything connecting you to life. Forget that which once was important. Give in to the gentle rocking of the waves under your boat. This little wooden instrument, the sole keeper of your life, now in full control. You are fearless yet condemned, unsure of your soul’s power to steer you in the direction desired.

The journey is far from calm or easy. The encounters are rapidly over, yet leave rippling currents that shake this unstable wooden object. You navigate without a compass or a map. This is the way I shall travel, you say. This will be the way I learn my way around these stars, these planets. I will use the dimming lights of the crescent moon to guide me further. I will seek dry land only as a last resort. I will hunt the fish of the deep seas and carry ornaments, valuable spices to trade with bushmen of far away islands. My boat will be named sancta regina, queen amongst ships of grandeur. But you are still drifting. Your soul is hurting, your heart is heavy. You have been rejected, cast out from amongst those you thought cared. You are unsure what will happen, telling the future is harder in foggy circumstances. No need to rise yet, the winds are favourable now, you should be on the right path for a few more days. Say, does it get lonely out there? No, you reply. It is lonely only in company. This, this is redemption.

As for me, I am trying to find a little bit of rope. I might pull you out or pull myself in to join you. I have never felt this free, lifted off the ground. The pain leaves drops of blood on your shiny spirit, leaves holes in mine. Closer, pedalling closer, faster, further away from all binding, clearly misleading, rotting human emotion that aims to kill off the other. I want no part in this, would rather join you in your sinking wooden boat. My raft is made of paper, rapidly disappearing. I go down with grace and honour. There is nothing familiar here, only the aches that sent me rummaging for a boat made of paper, air, dust, sand, clouds. Oh but this is a magnificent sight. A decisive and definite moment that can hold all the empty, fill the voids with meaning and clarity. I can barely see but I will wait.

Now it is silent, clearly still. The winds howl no more, the sails are gone. We are lying still, each in their own boat. The skies are mercilessly apparent, sharply outlining the exact location of each star. They burn. We move further but only with a fraction of a knot. Nothing to see behind us, too dark to see in front. I am humming a tune, maybe one you have made for me. You are repeating words I have given to you, long ago. Like this, to the silent rhythm of drums sounding from shores which have been long gone, we lie motionless, free in spirit. We wait for the next wave to come and grasp our frail boats, toss us to the bellows of the hungry sea. But in these boats we are finally, finally free.

use these nights

This and these past nights, these days without rims, beginnings or end, this matter without substance or outline. Spills from one side to the other, overflowing and uncontrollable. The black smell of death that spreads over every inch of the present and past. Fear for the future as it may lose its palette of colours. Only those basic illusions, reflections of light will rule. Never to wake from night, never to know the evil that roams when the light is gone. Wedged between the decision, not knowing the outcome of either. Fear then handcuffs you to the opening door, unable to walk through or to close. Think those screams will bring a tear to anyone’s eyes? More like hollow wailing, muted gusts of frustrated lungs, of hearts that fill with darkness to the very brim. Nothing can relieve the pressure of the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Here is the truth: I am not real. These words are not truthful to how you feel. The nights are silent and calm. The days are kind and wondrous. The strangers are teachers, the lovers are believers. The brothers are all of blood, the camaraderie exists on each floor through those pre-manufactured thin walls of separation. The black only spreads until the light appears. And light appears at the top of every morning. Its arrival is worshipped, its leaving is celebrated in peaceful unison. Only the occasional thunder of mortars delicately landing. Short circuits of the heart, night after night. One less life, one less doubter.

This is my toast to you on this lovely Friday evening. You lovely fellow heathen. The usual pastime of placing blame will not do now. The history which you carry on your skin has taught you that already, yet you continue. With more determination and a twisted addiction to the desire to dominate. This is the way to force your untruths onto others. Hope you feel better now.

I never know how to use these nights. Wasted most of them to useless sleep. You want to hear that I accept your ways, I have come to believe your untruths and that I cannot hear the angels war any more. After all just one more lie is not much to ask. It is over quickly and has little consequence. So I do. I do believe your untruths to be truths. I accept your ways. I cannot hear much but the angelic choirs of this heavenly peace that descends each coming night. Then I see the land, with eyes closed I can smell the snow. Slowly it covers every bestial act you have left lying on the concrete floor. I paint my house white, you paint yours red. My soul is dying in your arms and I feel no pain. The darkness in you eats away, gnaws on the sinews of your soul. We die in each others arms, convinced of the heaven we have found after so much time longing, searching.

In the thick darkness, in the man made silence there is a faint whisper. Every night I wake to hear the murmur. Every night it is the same. Not louder, not softer, not clearer, not closer. I hear it, I feel it, I can never catch it. Drags me from meaningless dreams, from futile sleep, from the destruction your soul does to mine. I wait. Tonight I will wake again and I hope for as long as I live I will wake in the middle of the night to the whisper, the almost inaudible cry. This muffled sound, the far away songs or yells. Words of caution or the screeching inarticulate noise of worry. These final haunted manic screams of hallelujah.

These lovers of the light

The images are foggy, smudged by the uncertainty that is projected. This is my struggle: to stay lucid, to stay connected to the only roots that I know to hold. To run blindfolded, to stay motionless while there is an urgency to leave. To love.  When there are signposts that guide in a direction we never intended to travel, then I bear witness. I swear an oath of fidelity, an oath to never cheat on loyalty. So this binds me, forever secures an airtight lock on my empty shell. The substance lies somewhere else, a place I can never truly get to. Momentarily I may see, but never be part of. Being where I am supposed to. Knowing painfully too well that where I am supposed to be is not where I am.

Magically you have disappeared. Not a word, not a sound thrown my way. But I go on, dutifully fill my days, each passing hour, each minute to count. Find distractions from you, from the screaming facts that otherwise would propel me to those better lands. Temporary, I hear your soothing voice, but I know better, so much better. I no longer believe you. Over the years I have forgotten to plan, to free myself of your lies. I stayed in one place in case you wandered around these streets I habit. In case I catch a glimpse of you in a hidden alley, on a magnificent bridge, a quiet bench. With each winter silently arriving and glamorously parading, notoriously leaving, it becomes apparent that I have outstayed my due welcome. It becomes apparent that I do not have the power to unchain my weak knees, so I fall to the ground. The only one I know.

My spirit is captive but free to roam. In these streets, in this city, the places I know. In this sweet prison my soul dies a little more each day. Where else could I belong? But the soul understands not the reasons to stay, only the reason to leave. Before it is not too late, I may eventually leave. Find the place you have hidden to. Visit the places we knew together, discover each day something more than the day before. I can see it in their eyes, faintly wanting to convince me to stay. Only very faintly and I am not convinced. Even if it is night, even if I steer my ship through dense darkness, I want to arrive where the light is. That may never be where you are, it may only be where I am.

 

The warm pull of the light, the sweet honesty of its charity. The memory of its silky touch, the force with which it sucked me in. That was once, already forgotten. I am gathering an army. I am calling on each soul that still remembers the light. The delirious, the delicious, the mesmerizing, the eternal light. I am building an army of souls that can conquer the darkness and push for the light, break beyond the shields. We will taste victory, taste the salty price of teardrops of frustration.

The light will move me, it will save me.

I beg you to move me. To save me.