if she only knew

Knew that all songs were written for her. Knew that poetry flew on the wings of the same doubt that she clutches to survive. Knew that each time we take flight, it is with the same reservations that ring loud to topple her from the pedestal that she so reluctantly assumed. If there was a way for her to know that we are in this together. That what she feels now, we have all felt. That the worry that engulfs her susceptible soul is not more severe, not less important than anyone else has ever felt. Books would not have been written. Great stories of humanity would not have been recorded if the lives of those who create were not riddled with anxiety. Rippled and holed, shredded each day to a million pieces then glued together with capricious spring winds. If she knew to listen to the signs, to read to the words, to see the thoughts, she would find remedy for her painful fate much sooner.

Imagine that in this endless ocean there is a raft that can take you to the other side. On that shore there are pearls not just shells. There are people from your past, there are possibilities that are endless. The other side is only an island. A floating island of impossibles. Hoops around your ankles, saddled up for a long ride, these clowns will show you which way to find your dreams. See this land is nothing like it would be in fairy tales. Here you can use the waters from lakes to wash the dust off your soul. Here each path leads to challenges that ultimately aid to better the self. No words can roam aimless, they must find their place. Those who live here are only visible to you, each will know your worries and pains. The conversations will show you how breaking then mending can be more beautiful than never breaking at all. You will learn to stand under the waterfall and wait for the words to wash away the anxious wait that you keep. Words will flow where waters should. Clouds will lie on the ground like cushions if you feel you must take a rest. Each step you take will bring you closer to the raft that awaits to bring you back. Back to where you belong.

If she only knew that her words were going to save her. If she only let them do the harrowing task of jumping then flying, she would find that she never needed to take the plunge again. If only she knew that those who read care more than she will ever know. If she knew that parading her most dearly kept secrets made us all so proud. She should know that her words are golden, her fears are conquerable, her worries are what any us feels when confronted with the unknown. If she only knew to keep feeling with depths that are immeasurable, with passion that is unending, with the same heart that beats to beat her. Between the beats that hurt, there will be a beat that saves. Her steady heart will save her. The beats inside her words will save her.

If she only knew that she will very soon be, all right.

these parts

Somewhere between a beautiful day and an impenetrable wall, between a doubtful beginning and a doomed existence is the love that we shared. Not boasting, not even visible, just silently breaking still. After all these years, still able to hurt, still able to flare, to make a lightning flame: burn me to the bone. The memories are covered in sand, deep enough to never be seen, soft enough for the wind to blow them bare. With this burden I travel the roads you and I were never to see together. I take the words to people who know nothing of the story of us. But you hold these parts. I succumb to the grip and in glorious sunshine let go, fall onto the soft web of memories.

In joyful reminiscence, in the blissful summer sun, with winds finally resting to take breaths is where you will find me. The songs like hammocks hold my moth-eaten soul. In this mesmerizing infirmary I rest until I feel strong enough to walk on. My lungs are filled with sin, my legs feel unused, my heart barely beating. This day saves me. Slowly I rise, take flight, travel to places unfamiliar, see the world through my own eyes. For years you have tainted me, haunted my every move, your words like echoes rang clear in my ears. For so long I have tried to stay afloat with a foot full of lead. But then you left, taught me to softly say goodbye, to turn and walk alone, to hold my broken parts and show the healing sun. Our souls chained, we moved through water in slow motion, but no more. Now I glide in shoreless seas, soar in uninhibited skies. I have found peace in a life without your love.

Time spent with you was golden, bursting with life. Time spent with you was shoots growing, flowers blossoming, rivers growing. Time with you was unthinkable to ever end. Each moment marked, each softly spoken word noted, recorded so as to never be forgotten. Time spent with you was high flying and sturdy kites. Colourful shapes blown by the wind, dried by the sun. There were times the adventures took us to fields and forests. Other times we lost ourselves in the jungle of one city after the other. Each building held us captive, watched as we left bits of ourselves at their feet. We roamed rivers and untraveled roads. We climbed trees and walls, sat on the edges of lakes. The distance between you and I was invisible, held together by a wire that we knew would never snap. Time with you was a flow of memories that kept me breathing under the heavy void your parting caused. 

 

I would still break these walls and choose to fall. For you. You are my sweet ghost, the one where all memories start. You are the root of these wounds, these beautiful scars. Your name never leaves, your face lingers and becomes part of the new that grows to make me who I am. In humble gratitude I think of you, even now. In honest confession I know that I would do it all again. For you.

Fly up to the Moon and say hello

In your certain kind of sadness, in those unforgiving moments that you have revelled in, with these lights that are dimming later and slower, there is a reminiscent ray of hope. Things change you whisper, they change and there is time and power, there is almost an ardent desire for want, for circumstance to cease its happenstance and become lucid and controllable. A choice, a distant but clear, luminescent choice. Before summer set foot I heard you vow that you would latch onto these changing times, that you would grab the tailcoats of these hurried winds that toss and stir the still waters of contrariety. I stood on the icy shore and waited to see. The water barely came up to greet me, the sun already melted the frozen leaves of unsuspecting plants that leaned too close to the water, the spring breeze was unkind, but I waited. Waited to watch you surface.  

Your lungs filled with fresh air, your hair scruffy from the long flight that you have already taken, there you went roaming endlessly. Took what you needed, just what you needed. There were notes and there were rhymes, there were memories of lovers and scars from friends who turned enemies or enemies who turned friends. There was a glint in your eyes as you waved to me standing on the shore. You knew I would be there when you returned, waiting with such loyalty. Waiting with such love. Your heart boasted with more confidence than that flying balloon could take. If it was filled with helium or just your wonderful imagination, it flew with more speed than the eyes could follow. Soon you were a distant figure, just a spot in the sky, just a thought in the heart hoping to see you return. 

 

These lands are wondrous, unthinkable. The faces are gleaming, the strangers are long lost friends on the outside, but true strangers on the inside. The houses stand on their roofs, the doors are windows and the windows are doors. There are horses that run backwards, there are singers who cannot sing. This is what you told me of your journey. There are lovers without anyone to love and there are writers without anything to write. The skies are turning from orange to blue to red to green. The winds carry not scents but memories, objects and people from the past. Everyone says hello when they leave and bid farewell when they greet. The mirrors reflect the imagination, the pens write what the heart thinks. Each word is carefully selected, none are allowed to hurt. Fruits move to a beating rhythm, nobody works to destroy one-another. The sun takes votes for how long to shine. Sometimes the days are long, some other times they are very short. Hammocks provide for regular beds, the seas quiet when the sun sets. Everyone cheers the painter who cannot paint, the singer who cannot sing, the writer without anything to write. They say inspiration is time’s prisoner, until set free the host is merely a shell. So they wait for the painter’s luck to return to his brush. Listen to the singer’s out of tune hum until the melody comes rushing back. They read empty pages until the writer’s pen is yet again filled with ink. Days pass in peace, each takes to their own. Waterfalls can suddenly stop and trees grow to screaming heights overnight. Nothing seems impossible - in this land only wishing to stay infinitely cannot come true.  

In your certain kind of sadness there is a hopeful streak of lightly filled memories. See how quickly summer has replaced winter? You join me on the shore, take your travelling boots, your dusty jacket off. Then your hair grown long from the impossible journey rests on the velvet grass. You begin the story of how you went up to the moon. How you went up to the moon all alone. Slowly you start to believe that nothing was ever going to stop you. I listen intently, show you these days are changing. The notes are finding their songs, the words are finding their page. You are finding yourself and on this shore we will wait for the good people to find what to really see, hear and read. In these confusing times who to really be.