and as for winter, it is only may

There is no stopping. There is no stopping the momentous river, the forceful flow, the speed at which the body of water rushes from high to low. Latitude, constellations, the pull of the moon, these things are in charge. The piercing sound, the noise of the robust river emptying its filth onto its own bed keep the wandering mind at base. The sight makes you uncomfortable, the sound pains your frail ears. The fish jump in desperation high into the air, gasping, trying to defy the laws of physics, biology, chemistry. Through guilds of glittering silver they fall to their fate, carried at speed to their new resting place. The land devastated, this is what is left behind.  

How things have changed, you whisper. There is no more love in your heart. The landscape of the soul echoes that of an aftermath, a horrific disaster. Every nook, every hill, every man made tower of success wiped flat in a fraction of a second. I blinked, you destroyed. This barren sight bears your name, this is your prize. My esteemed friend, regret, never fails to show in time of need. The other friends we once shared now pick sides. I am captain, you are captain. The river we navigate is untamed, unruly, flows through curtains of gallows, there is no chance to escape. Only maybe to the moon.

You forfeit grace when I shout - do not! But you do, and walk away. Oh how those whispers haunt, how your sudden eruption exploded in my peaceful heart. I try to ease the qualm, but sadness drapes its endless weight over me. I wait for resolution, for a higher power to take me. Pray for time to heal.

Here is how peace descends. How silence takes over once more. Everything comes to a slow halt, turns back to how it was before the boisterous interruption. The river retreats.  My heart may survive, may grow back the parts that have been badly damaged. May learn to grow more beautiful parts that will take flight, search the world and land with someone new. I may learn to believe in days that will not be so blue. May even stop wishing for winter in this early May.

Unbecoming.

So I have been seduced by your sights. Your amazing colours, scents, the arid vast lands that lock no sand, hold no roots. So I have been turned into someone else, a wiser, more accepting woman. Negligently, for a second, I mistook your beauty, making belief that I could hold it, have it. So I believed for a prolonged period of time that I could uproot myself and live in your abundant kingdom. Arrived how I left, in awe. Churned out body and soul to see the parts I have waited years to see.

I hold no regrets, openly claim my infidelity. I left the spring streets to roam deserts, towns destroyed, newly created, to see seas that grow and disappear. I shared sights with men and women who aver those lands, who bow continually, who make nothing of blind sighted fanatics dragging their heels. But my residency was only temporary. I missed the trees gloriously parading their petals of white and pink. I missed the bloom which they show only to a few. I ran away, hoped to find peace, hoped to find trees that were beautiful the same. Now, upon my return, like the prodigal son I beg for forgiveness. Beg to be let back in.

Here is my heart, swinging back and forth, swaying sideways, hoping to brush against yours. I learn where home is through great cost, through breaking fully to mend partially. I leave to return. I return to want to leave again. I say nothing of the battles fought, how peace never settles. But you suspect, maybe even know. Share the burden and allow my inexperienced heart to befriend grave injustices and bold untruths. Slowly the unbecoming descends, a bad fit, an uncomfortable disposition.

Then I learn. Build walls from pieces I have gathered. Respect sits highly on a wired fence and I have seen it. I slowly learn the how, capture each moment, forgive each misplaced step, one by one. I am yet the same, still somehow different. I have let go, but hope keeps me captive. Forces me to visit far away lands and cheers, mocks from the sidelines while I am childishly mesmerized by all I see. By men of devotion passing, by women in wigs of errors, by differences that only ridicule the sameness. I am much the same as I was a week ago. I am nothing to who I used to be last week. My eyes have seen hatred and peace. My eyes have seen divine building blocks. My eyes have seen trees as old as the good news.

Still, I beg for forgiveness. Silently, just like last time, I beg for your forgiveness. I left wanting to return, I have returned wanting to leave. All I know is your grace. All I know to do is beg for your forgiveness. I have been seduced, I have been unfaithful, I have been forever converted, my heart turned, my mind opened. I have foolishly given up rain washed lands for deserts of rocks, beige camouflaged battle grounds, sparkling reminders of faiths warring. I hoped to find you, but you wished not to be found. I have seen and now long to be allowed to come back down.

Laurence Alma-Tadema

If no one ever marries me,—

And I don't see why they should,

For nurse says I'm not pretty,

And I'm seldom very good—

If no one ever marries me

I shan't mind very much;

I shall buy a squirrel in a cage,

And a little rabbit-hutch:

I shall have a cottage near a wood,

And a pony all my own,

And a little lamb quite clean and tame,

That I can take to town:

And when I'm getting really old,—

At twenty-eight or nine—

I shall buy a little orphan-girl

And bring her up as mine.

gonna write it out. gonna wait it out

There are places of importance one should visit. Life changing streets, buildings, monuments, people, scents, skies, beliefs. In the back alleys is where the heart gets lost. Forever. Instilled with every footstep the magnificent grandness lurches above the endless spirit. To this place I must go. The pull of those dusty streets, the barren landscape, the scorching heat, the drought stricken, crackling earth is unending. Goes beyond any other pull I have ever known. I hope to find myself in those lands, find the wandering parts that have roamed unnoticed, unimportant to anyone but me.
 

If this place bestows confidence onto me, then I will turn to whisper my deepest secrets to its streets. If I will be allowed to unmask all that is unholy in me, if these parts would shelter the bare skin, the throbbing flesh of lies, the untruths that have marred the soul, then I would shrink to hear the growing roots, bend to see the careless winds, run to see the motionless rocks of a thousand years gone. Then I would try to be brave enough to listen and believe. To see sense in the one thing that is of truth. The one answer which outlives all other answers. The one love that outloves all other impostors.

The gentle bowing of these men of faith may help to shed the memories of you. Rid the past of your entrenching presence. I will let the winds rush through me, find their way through my fingers, blow from the deepest bellows, scare me into surrender. Your face will no longer linger. The thought of you will no longer haunt.

The deserted land, the soul emptied, these are what await. Stillness in havoc and unruly words flung at each other from arm’s length. I may not see the whole, I may miss the parts that have been veiled. I may visit the land and never see myself in it. But here is a chance. A decisive moment of power, a fate fulfilled, a destiny manifested. These burdened souls, these heavy hearted men of faith will aid my unsure steps towards the place, the time. Towards the other who will listen, who has waited, who has been just as unsure as we all in our unending walks.

This place is bigger than me. Bigger than my heart. Bigger than my soul. This place fills me, finds me, wants me, captures me, releases me. This place is where death equals life, where they will throw dust in my face, where they will embrace all my wounded memories. This place is where I will attempt to unload my burden, come clean about all my lies, find a soul, used a little, scarred in places, but hopeful and beautifully shining in the spring sun. From there on this place will have the best part of me. From there on home will mean something different every time I hear it ring. This journey you should take with me. This place entraps even the most hard of hearts. This place has entrapped me already. Entrapped me before I ever set foot on its dusty streets.   

Winter Has Left Unnoticed

It seems that you are inconsolable. The lights flickering at the almost unnoticed edges of contentment leave you sadder than you were before. Everywhere you turn, the traces of things once known come hurling at you. At break neck speed. The knowledge to evade has left, you have become the bull’s eye. Sadness is your kindest companion, a true ally in every hardship, a sincere friend in this wholly insincere world. Consoling words fall right off, court jesters face sure beheading upon this task presented: to chase the sadness from you heart. It seems comfortable, habituated and you seem at peace, content with the circumstance. Must you brave this cold night all alone? Must you wander these desperate streets without the warm words to balm your neck like a woolen scarf? You bow your head in agreement: that you must and you must alone and you must in gloom.
 

Some words can only surface from the dark. On a clear day, with the sun brightly shining, some thoughts will not form. The pool of sorrow creates them and catapults them into daylight when it has been long dark outside. The breeding ground for words that change is your inconsolable heart. The heart that has not been hurt, has not been pained, has not been broken. It has only been left alone, it is merely lonely. The lonely heart dips further into the pool of sorrow. Further and further until it is drowned then saved by a rope made up of truths that leak darkness. The page captures the drops, here a gasping wound, there a broken wing, all becoming inconsolable, with time passing ever more reluctant to dry on sun drenched beds amidst hearty, tall grass. Protect them I must, protect your broken parts I must. So I run in search of you to cover your shivering spirit with my warm, loving, unending tearful collection of words.

 

Will we ever see winter turn into spring together? Spend a day watching the trees grow their magnificent leaves? Muster all their strength to bring to life their most vulnerable parts. Then you mourn for winter has left unnoticed.  The frost, the snow, the ice have vanished without a teardrop. The trees are busy living, the sun is busy shining stronger, the lovely snowflakes have parted and may never return. Winter has accepted the constant abuse, the bitter reception when it arrives and the loud, joyful, shameless celebration when it leaves. Disdain at its every effort to decorate our lands. Winter’s soul is not broken, never drowns in the sadness but may one day decide to not come again. Visiting these lands where contempt reigns pushes winter further into the pool of sorrow. Winter, just like you, is inconsolable. Gently sweeps through, enters slowly and leaves abruptly, these people sing and dance too loud when it dies. Who will revive winter next time? You wonder as you stand alone somewhere near where winter has last been.

In all your sadness I see an unending beauty, an unthreatening willingness to document these emotions. Your love for the words that emerge one by one brings tenderness that can only live with an understanding for the sometimes dark birthplace. Please never forget to use these words wisely, make them lure you closer, make them give you freedom to explain the unending sorrow, the rightful sadness, the tears that uncontrollably flow at the sight of the seasons changing, people hating, love disappearing. Whisper to me that you see where I am even if I stand in darkness, trapped, unable to move except to the beat of your voice. Promise that we would run into the cold aimless, to save those who have never seen the dark, inconsolable truth that guides you and me. If we are two lonely words, I want my dark to cover yours.

Regrettably Drifting

Whether it’s trough a storm of emotions, memories that haunt, instances that have been impossible to remove from the heart, through words leaving scars, tangled in arms that have healed, there is a slow and steady drift. Towards and away, ebb and flow, constant tug of war, unending circular motion through hurt and pain. Then you feel the pull, from left to right, to a monotonous beat, to melodious variations in different times and different places. Somewhere in this aimless drift there has got to be direction. To that notion you rest your weight on the stranger next to you. Darkness falls silently.

It began with an almost unnoticeable current: just a breeze that gently nudged the unsuspecting sailboat. Frail as it went out to sea, unable to keep its bearing, succumbing to the masterful pull of the moon. On that boat lay a hopeful life. Hopeful and unwise, facetious and careless in attending to the forceful wind. The ever drifting machinery, the means of success or a despicable end. As for a hunted prey, the fear is overtaken by rational and clear thought. To survive.

 

Amidst the calmness the seas may roar. The paths may be closed by ravenous vines hoping to see a soul fall. Feed no other need but the need of hunger, simple, complacent hunger. The spirit will follow. Each choice is then veered either this or that way. Beyond the control of any wind in sail.  Beyond that realm of possibility lies happenstance. Serene and serious, the way we have set sail to is north, by chance. Stumbled upon the guidance of those wiser before us, but ultimately unable to keep to the rhythm of their words. The dance catches the tender hearts, the beats throb through the skin and bones, the cage that protects the muscle and sinew. Then like a feather leaving on a journey with the winds, the dancers fall to the luscious rhythm of each promise unkept. The direction changes, the paths unwind, the good moon stays unmoved, the winds take the sails and head them a new way. Drifting, I wait.  

The night clears the day before of the harmful thoughts. Night pulls its veil over every error, every unkind word. Softens the ground on which the unforgiven will fall. Night quiets the cacophony of daylight deliverance. Merciful are the forces of nature, allow the memories to take place, to roam the heart and soul, to conjure images long gone, revive conversations long forgotten. For a moment the drifting halts. In that moment I find you, unchanged, still from the will that suspends the reach of time or space. We lock hands, pull each other closer. Just as I feel you our time is gone. The night is merciful or patient no longer. I drift further, let go of the old, seek new instead. Peace comes in many forms, some painful, some sacrificial, some unnoticed.

The slow and steady drift enters unseen. Shifting direction then holding still. Through gasping holes of sorrow. Through overflowing love. Through brittle and dry land. Through mazelike marshlands. Through the dying sun and the killing moon. Through each life lived unpained. Through forgiveness. Through grace. Through the unending beauty in letting go. Drifting slowly, drifting, fortunately. 

No Tears Will Flow

It is easy to be drawn to your world. The scope of despair does not repel. There is a sea of darkness that poses mystery and it attracts. Brokenness, like a virtue, like a lesson taught by the many taunting instances of history leaves the soul bare, leaves the outside yearning to be let in. You are somber, accepting the course of fate that should befall. It is the desire of one, it is the pleasure of one. This world protects its own and offers merely a glimpse for those who wish to gain an understanding. You appear true, truer than anything else these eyes have seen. The perfect gimmick or just fooled by the haze of your secretive ways. Come offer these thoughts, unveil your plans, calm the storms with your centuries old wisdom. It is easy to be drawn to your world, there is truth in the roots, there is hope hidden somewhere in the back alleys of memories centered around a day when life as you knew it changed.

The sadness is so deep that no tears will flow. It is earthed in the most sacred burrow of your soul. It asks nobody for forgiveness, it haunts no idea in pursuit of change. Your soul, like a giant, takes the sadness to harness grace and humility. With each battle lost you know that you must learn. They are your people and their sadness, your own. You have seen them resilient and you have seen them crack under the burden. You have never seen them betray the only idea they live to protect. The sadness comes from generations being denied the freedom to falter. It deepens with every boy becoming a man, with every will overturned, with every silent plea never reaching the makeshift wall to bounce off of. Herein lies the inattackable concept: truth brings about infinite sadness.

The cycle of life must continue. Out of boredom or a heightened sense of duty, the task is carried on, the sadness passed from mother to son, the darkness kept out of sight of the rotating Sun. There is consensus that this deed must be done. It is a hereditary tendency, encoded in the genes of everyone from your world. Despair. Despair at the state of the now, at the thought of the past, at the bleak possibilities the future holds. It seemed some of those thoughts were more highly regarded than others. There is fault in your unending sadness, there is danger in your world of despair, there is caution that begs for attention over your all encompassing darkness. Still, your world attracts for it lights the way to further self search. It is a source for truth.

You are not moved. Not even by the bustling spring landscape? If my soul was better, purer, whiter, I would follow. Spring captures me. Sends me years ahead in the future, fills me with hope. Life, once again, is showing its power. Despair now has no room in my heart. Darkness banished, brokenness forgotten. Yet, not at all. With every petal appearing there is an urgency to turn towards the founding notions of your world. Beauty seen as a hindrance only to be used as an aid in painting the infinite power of one. You have made a deal. A union so sacred that complete surrender sends you standing strong at the edge of anguish. I long to follow. To believe as well as you. To long for the sadness as much as you have made it your soul’s desire. To want the dark, inexplicable despair. To know a sadness so deep that no tears will flow.

My Name: The Veil of Ignorance

The things happened have been curious, almost heavenly in their detail. There was an idea, a longing, there came substance and through heavy breaths the concept was born. The melodious flow of life, the featherweight injustices that befall instantly. Helplessness is the first lesson to learn. In broad daylight the thieves came and robbed you of your very first day. The day that all other days are measured to.

There is power in your graceful slowness. How spring leans in, only just mocking, only just snickering at our efforts to change, to undress, to clench the faint sunshine. Time bound you to its side and you are aware of nothing. No need to hide, to ever remember these days, they are swallowed whole by the intangible black matter. You may never know the importance or the burden of the beginning, of every single beginning. In thick darkness came the notion that formed the substance which lead to namesake. Before you know there will be a life chained to you, forever you will be bound by the mistakes of those before you, the thoughts of those after you. There is no path you can choose that will save you from the struggles. This here is how it starts.

You will soon learn how futile your voice is. Screaming down the things hateful to you, and nobody to suggest change. The reaction will be nothing you had ever anticipated. Claims will fly high overhead that you would have wanted this or that. Your voice will go silent, your cries will be muffled, your every effort to move towards that which you want will be halted by a forceful giant. You will lie there motionless. You will not matter until you manage to state your claim: you have been ignorant of these ways. Visibility on a clear night will be compromised and with the popping of the open fire each will retire in sweet belief that you have what you want, you got exactly what you had wanted, you could never possibly want anything else. But you do. And you will. Until you are beaten down to accept that what you see is only ever what you can get.

Stay confined to the parameters you have been given and there will be no progress. You must flee the comfortable to know things better, different. You have to see people broken, miserable from the hardships they must endure. And you gloat in your luck of having been born into a luxurious part of the globe. Oh so comfortable. Learn to know no bounds, to see everything, to hear every opinion whether grand or small. You should keep days for when fear takes over, when hatred bubbles, when doubt and conceit creep in and your soul invites them. The rain may move you, but it may leave you completely still. For much of the way you will be alone. You will lie. One day you will see the end to this unsure beginning. The journey rests with you, whether you embark or not. Whether your eyes will be curious or your soul chained.

You will not meet people who know your name, so you must teach them. Kindness may evade or empty uncontrollably on you. You must search, from now until the end, for those who are honest, who are true, who will show you that whatever you learn from now will never be enough. There is only so much time that can be covered up with your veil of ignorance.

holes.

You were always so careful. You tread lightly so as not to break the bits inside you. Things that were misplaced or lost, you spent endless days trying to retrieve. The idea of perfect never left your shoulders. There it sat, dangled its feet, chuckled when doubt neared. The fragile had bubble wrap. The honest had rows of shields. The piercing rays that begged for a peak at your heart’s real state were repelled by the forceful concrete that you so carefully built, block by block. There were no cracks, no crumbling of the foundations. You have been a devoted keeper, a real master to that which has been trusted in your care.

Except these things burst and fall to millions of tiny pieces. On your watch it all becomes undone. This is no fault of your own, the inevitable is hard to evade if at all possible. You were just not prepared and chose to ignore the alarming signs. But there they were, behind the rows of shields, behind every lurking, curious light beam that found its way through the pores of that impermeable concrete. Everyone saw. When it was dark and there was nowhere else to look, we all saw that your heart had holes. Why are you not consoled with the know that we all do? Some hearts have tiny, some have gasping, some have growing, some have shrinking, but they all have unfillable holes. Holes where hurt has been.

 

Be brave. Be courageous and start to dissemble your constant guards. The journey will not be easier with them, it will not be always pleasant without them. You have done well for yourself till now. We have seen the full you, do not be ashamed. No heart is the same as the other, no life has the same purpose as another, no idea born out of want for change is in vain. You should feel so proud of your heart. It is with this imperfect heart that you will win wars, souls, other hearts that will follow. Follow your modest, lovely, stunningly beautiful, miraculous heart. When has hurt not made you stronger? When have your enemies not bowed once they have seen your shining, reluctant, truthful, humble heart? And you have been concealing it. You have been thinking it is to be shut away and now feel naked that your secret is out. We know. We know that your heart has holes too. Look up. Dry your eyes. This is time to learn to see how beautiful your heart is. Look how perfect in its imperfection. Look how alike it is to you. Learn this moment so you can teach others what it feels to finally see the seed inside.

You can never be sure and this anyone will guarantee. Wise men of all walks of life know only this: the heart has its holes, the sun its rays, the sky its wind. Honesty will cripple you, but a life lived without it kills instantly. Others around you are the same. Some try to fool you with words, grandiose statements that bend the ear and ring majestic for days on end. Some others masquerade the outside with stolen ornaments, shiny and facetious. There are roads that lead to nowhere lined with signs that direct. Countless traps wait for your child like, unsure step. There will be ghosts in the dark luring you towards the wondrous light. There will be kind souls shooting at you, wanting to see your demise.

You be strong now. Be sure of the heart you have. Know that it has its holes and that without its holes it would not be a heart at all. Know that love can only wrap itself around your heart through those holes.

Hadestown

The God of War, in his unforgiving tone turned to you and said “it is time”. Swearing under the undeniable oath you claimed that you will carry out the deeds that must be done. Kill the ones who must be gone, maim the ones who must be maimed. There will be no looking back to yesterday, no droopy eyed search for tomorrow’s peace, there will be war. There will be battles fought, there will be advances, there will be unforgiving strategies, no day, no night. You were summoned, called on, finally made to feel important and under no circumstance were you ever going to relinquish the order, the fate, the duty which you were called on to carry out.  Serious men are to do serious business, the God of War has made sure his voice was heard across mountains, oceans and treacherous lands. It is you who carries his voice inside your own.

Sundown balms the weary bones with soft rays, almost unnoticed, almost too easy to miss. Where light never reaches is where your queen lives. She toils. The plates before her crack as she opens her deep brown eyes and slowly lifts them to light your face. Persephone, the ruler of the underworld is here to speak. Unimaginable is her voice to you, melodious and kind, the hardened deity lures you instantly: “go find him who journeys forever”. There is no time for questions, she turns and as with the steam of a boiling bath she disappears behind the voluptuous nymphs who have pulled each and every string of you heart until now. The underworld is a sacred place to visit and you have come back from it with a mission. Only a few have survived, many have perished in the quest to do what they have been summoned to do. Mortals clench the fragments of myths, most of them die whilst doing so. You can be different or you can cease to exist just the same. The gods could not care less. This challenge is yours and yours alone.

None of your biblical gods have been invented yet. Abraham’s not had Ishmael or Isaac yet, Jacob’s not had his twelve children yet. No prophets have roamed the lands, no scrolls have been recorded with dubious facts. No history and no future to tell. The gods, sometimes out of fury, out of contempt, out of hatred for their own flesh and blood have sent you on an errand you could not have refused to undertake. There is war and there is search. There are traps along the way ever diminishing the chance of a successful outcome. In search of the one who journeys, you embark on your war. Through uneducated people and places, farms where they count the passing of days by how much fish they catch, you learn the evils of war. The beauty in time taken to finish that which could also be done in a haste. The wars have worn you out, the skies turned ever darker, the call of Persephone ever louder, yet the travelling king was bound to never return. You slowly understand the years it took Odysseus to find his way back. From then on you command those who take the long way home.

You were not prepared for what was expected of you. No god in history or in the present could ever hold that against you. Fatefully you do again all that has been asked of you, all that you have already failed to do countless times. They could call you Sisyphus but you are no king. You wretched mortal, you creep of a dying kind, you slow and pitiful man who has been broken by war, broken by promises unkept, broken by your life that has been unkind. The gods do not care about the excuses, about your pains, your blisters, fractures, burns, your bruises. May the wrath of the house of Zeus come thundering down on you! May the wrath of the great God of All evade you! Then and only then do you have a chance to fulfil that which was asked of you. The God of War has instructed you to fight. The Queen of the Underworld has commanded you to search. The King of Epic Journeys have stood silent as you found your own deplorable end. None of them know that you have secretly travelled a great deal to bring them peace. You cried along the way, but in the end you have brought them what they had asked from you. You have brought them your soul. Intact and honest, you are now willing to give them your soul. Hades, take my soul! I long to join the nymphs and sinners in the underworld. I long to roll the boulder up the hill. I long to journey endlessly in this world that you have made for me. I long to live in the world you have made for me.

kind to myself, kind to others

Accepting the harrowing colours,
the reality that tips on its very own axis.
Aching for the void that can never be filled,
longing to see through the abysmal, the disgraced.

Bound by the infinite ropes of regret,

held tightly by servitude, a twisted sense of duty.
Fighting to loosen the grip to catch solid ground.
To feel peace.

Falling on unkindly words.

Hoping there is reason in hurt.
Running aimless towards a common goal,
Hiding senseless from the unending cold.

These souls torture me, these souls burn.

Some words help me, some words kill.
The past haunts me, the future stays behind.
You bend me, I am still, blind.

Creation is a chore, uninspired these lives remain.

Chimes rang through the river.
I was unable to speak or follow.
You took what was left.

Oftentimes kindness is mistaken for weakness,

Braveness for meekness, loveliness for sincerity.
Then kindness leaves me, only to pair with you.

Now it’s empty, broken like a fool.

Whispered in a Song

The days that make me question are too numerous. Too numerous and too cruel, impeding every moment that poses otherwise. Then the constant spinning makes me doubt even the most sturdy, sane and straight forward thing in my life. Each victory shoots me down the path of confidence. Each disappointment sinks me into regret. Regret gnaws away at my soul and I am unable to banish it. Such a firm grip it has on all things that are present, reaching back in time, exchanging places, people, mixing and matching that which was, with which is. Suddenly I am unable to distinguish between where I should be and where I am. Faintly, I see where I should be, is not where I am.

Then I turn to you. My sole guide in this hazy journey that I have been forced to take. Forced or asked to. My place is not where I think it should be. My place is right where it is. How you pull at my soul, how tight you pull the ropes in opposite directions. It is with excruciating pain that I start each day and it is with no better sentiment that I end it. And in between the start and the end, without fail, I shift left to right and right to left, trying to see where I should be. On a good day I see my perfect place. On an even better day, I see where I am going. On a bad day I only see where I want to be but can never get to. Like a child I beg for your help. Lost, exhausted, frightened, I look for you to show me that indeed I am right where I should be.

The peace you see on the outside reflects little on the inside. There are moments that shine, and I shine along with them. There are people who make sense and my life makes sense with them. There are days that outlive all other days and with them I create a legacy. But every day I spend in battle. You see little evidence of the fight, there are no bruises, there are no casualties, there is no blood, there are no children and women running for cover with tears streaming down their faces. Just because I have no tears does not mean I don’t cry. I cry for the person I never became. For the things I never achieved. For the mistakes I am about to make. For the people I didn’t fight for. For the love I never let go.

On glorious sunny days, just a whisper sets me straight. In my heart I know that I am right where I should be. But the heart is not confident, it is the frailest part of us all. The night descends with questions that the morning tries to erase but fails with each attempt. I have come to accept that what I know now, I will doubt once I wake. I am alone at night and I wait for the qualms with the sun, with no one by my side. Then I remind my heart that we must gear for battle. That being here can make me grow. That from here I know where to go. I might seem lost to you, I seem lost to me at times, but I am hardened by the journey, wiser by the time past, more accepting of the fate that should befall. I know I am right where I should be. Do you?

A Good Heart

Dragging my feet through the winding alleyways of life, sometimes in a careless skip, some other times in dreary disbelief, heavy from the burden, light from the simplest notes that dance around me when the gentle snow is falling silently on the ground before me, I take an unexpected stop. Take count of things that have been and those that I still await. With fear and excitement I halt to wait for time to rush forward. So I can keep track. Standing still to gather courage for the road that lies ahead, to muster strength to move forward, to see, appreciate all that is around. No other agenda, just the majestic beauty in each carefully orchestrated step. Those steps might be pre-meditated, might be random, might be my own choice, might be a part of some greater plan. I might have faith along the way, I might spend my days aimless.

In the stillness I know that I have your good heart. Good, strong heart. I learn from it, learn how to make my own heart compassionate, forgiving. I have to be ready, prepare for those who I’m yet to meet. You teach me each day. In wondrous amazement I listen to hear what your heart says. Mostly it stays silent. In the silence I search for my own beat, steady but young and frivolous. Your heart knows how to love, how to forgive. My heart only knows how to cheat the feelings that might be harmful. Taking chances seldom, adhering to a distance that assures safety. A full heart that wishes no pain. Kindly you take my hand, each passing day you show me a little more, show me how to guard my heart without shutting away its beautiful tenderness. I cry most nights. I open the light to my heart to you, a liberating deed. I fear that it’ll break, my heart’s not as good as yours. You move without a word, console me, my weeping eyes, my saddened soul, promise to make my heart as good as yours. On dark, deep winter nights, when the ice plates form on the backs of rocky rivers, when the snowflakes lock to make a soft carpet, I let myself believe, fall into the silence of the deep night in perfect belief that my heart can be as good as yours.  

I plan in unity, I plan in solitude. Whichever way the road bends, my road, the one that brings me to a long, slow stop, I know that there is time to prepare my heart. That for however long you are there to help teach me to see confidence as virtue, honesty as bravery, humility as strength, I will walk with a straight back. I may not have known how to see clear if it wasn’t for you. Wherever the road may lead, with whomever I am supposed to walk my path, I know that I need a good heart. In all decisive measures the heart is pivotal. I may lose you soon, I may lose you only with the end of a lifetime, your heart may turn hard and mine ugly. We might lose each other and we might lose our good hearts, but we lose each day, just as we gain each passing minute more of the wholeness, more of the courage to march on. March as the load gets heavier, march as the love grows fainter, march as forgiveness becomes impossible. Hardened by the years and broken by the bitterness, the good heart will need our pristine memories to come to a living beat.  

I remember when fear left me unable to move. I remember how you came to hold me then. I remember how I felt the unstoppable beat of your good heart.  I knew then I wanted my heart to have no other beat.   

I’m a thief

I steal not only what is precious to you, but what is essential. You might think that we are blood brothers, but we’re brothers only in indecency, in the malignant intent to deceive. We are brothers but not in blood. I steal the air that your lungs crave. I steal the ideas that you thrive on, that propel you to create. You shine on a well lit stage, cloaking with emotions that once raced through you. You tell your story, they all applaud. Then I come to steal, clench, rip away the best moments and reuse them as my own. Your pain becomes mine.
 

With frequency you become desensitised and I become the body that is hurled back to the gutters of heartache. You learn to live with your pain, you channel it outwards and I catch it as it hits me in the face. I like the duality, the connection between you and me. But then I saw you break. I couldn’t leave, mesmerized by the force with which you hit the bathroom floor. You curled up and cried, silently succumbing to the pain that you thought you were releasing each coming night. The pain grew inside and erupted involuntarily. I watched you wipe off the tears. I felt like a thief.

I’m a silent intruder, a motionless robber. I listen then move to create, to make what was yours, mine. You chose to share and empowered me to use the wings of your despair as my own. Never do I take flight. When you are up on that well lit stage, I am curled up on the bathroom floor. When you stand I break. When you break I watch you fill the room with the most amazing poetry. I move in carefully to steal each heavy, honest word. You let me. You smile then turn away so I can rampage amongst all that you’ve decided to show.

Do your lungs not need this air? Do my hands not need these words? All along you had no idea and you never will. I keep on using what you create but selfishly keep to myself all that I create. You laugh, ask me what I had made. I lie, tell you I can never make anything. I am clumsy and talentless compared to you. But we both know that I have seen you break. We both know that we are brothers not in blood but in intent. We both try to find that which will mend the ways that we choose sometimes. We both know that nothing you make is your own. Nothing I make is mine. It runs through me, but never can be held. We both know that your pain is mine. We both know that every line in your poetry has already been sung by someone else. We both know that each idea I have has been used by someone else. We both know that I’m a thief  but I’m not the only one who steals.

whole is hard to shatter

Fragments from a decade ago still resonate. Resonate with the person I am today. Remind me of the person I used to be, or still am. Paying careful attention I discover traces of all things I held dear then. I discover them in the now, in the person I am today. Have I not changed? This brings comfort and frightful recognition. Parts of me are the same as back when dreams were believed to have the distinct possibility of coming true. Firm belief in the notion that the moment will come that will erase all past injustices. Tight grip on this belief, locking with all ten fingers, hanging above the endless sea, no notice of depth or danger. That was me then, able to believe and suspend disbelief for considerable periods of time. Fragments resonate, not the whole. I realise now but still willingly travel back in time on the wings of these thoughts.

There I stood uncorrupted, in virtuous ignorance, riding the waves of life’s big questions on the backs of wooden horses that spelled out honour, grace, bravery, loyalty. Big words filled my life, brought unbelievable burden and sadness. Truth crept in and truth destroyed everything else around it. Wasteful ideas about nonchalance made me cast away peers who didn’t make the cut. The circle of elite were privileged and we chose who to include, who to not. Instead of answers I found ever more questions. To some I guessed the answers and got lucky. To some others, I’m still searching. Years seem to not matter, distance or time bears no relevance. Slowly, one by one, I had to let go of first grace, then bravery, then dreams of unthinkable magnitude. By letting go there came the burden of emptiness and lost expectation.

I had to learn how to walk with a straight back again. Sometimes I still forget. I envy those who never bend, those who only bend for the ones they love. I bend with every breeze that catches me off guard whilst crossing a bridge. I lose the hand of honour and justice, I lose sight of grace. Humility and honesty meet me once every so often and the time we spend together is precious little. I used to fill my life with grandiose ideas about an honourable existence. Every step, every day I lost a little of the wholeness. A decade ago I embarked on a journey that was going to be a sail in a hot air balloon, singing all along the way. The hot air slipped from my balloon and in a haste I had to throw out the heavy words that I took with me. First went grace, then honour, then bravery, then loyalty, then humility, then honesty. At last I landed and now spend much of my time retrieving all that I had lost until now.  

There are fragments from the past that help. There is a room full of strangers when the music starts. Then I feel like I did when the world was not too dirty or unjust to take on. When I saw only the good. Every breath of every stranger brings me closer to who I was then. Every note builds the words that I have lost and spend each waking minute trying to find. There is a G from grace. Soon there comes the H in humility. I expected no fast recovery. I am willing to take the long way back, but I fear that I can never be whole again. I can never be uncorrupted like how I started out. The success of survival stems from hardening the shell to weather any storm. A decade ago my whole was hard to shatter. A decade ago I was a whole you could not have shattered.

Some Will Walk Alone

Today I persuade myself that there’s worth in each thought that ferociously begs to be let out. It’s hard to believe and would be easier to walk away, give heed to the slumbering, the quiet call of the calm moonlight. I lose hearing the thumps, accept that the silence within must mean silence out here. Time is not enough, thoughts must lay in the dark never surfacing, never causing anyone discomfort. With endless care these thoughts can no longer live a solitary life. With endless care they rise to sing harmonies that bend the most unforgiving of hearts. The hardest hearts will open to beautiful dream, repeating the once familiar. Thoughts circle around the same streets, thoughts come up to the shore to wash their dust ridden bodies clean. Laughing as they do so, I keep a watchful eye so that no-one takes them hostage. 

Leaving a prison, being liberated by crisp, clean air, hurrying down spiral stairs. How time holds me in its firm grip, how slowly winter waltzes in. In the silence I think of you. Every snowdrop bears the burden that your leaving caused, sheds a light on how time has decided to chain me to the past. There have almost been a dozen winters without you and there have only been a few with you. Still, I never love anything more than seeing my city covered in snow. Then I whimper in the darkest night, nobody hears, you the least “please give my broken parts back”. But you won’t let go, keep each piece, demand a ludicrous ransom I cannot give you. I do not have that kind of time, those kinds of treasures.

It is hard to find words when the words have left me. It is hard to lure them back to where they have been treated so miserably. You are no help. Words wrap themselves around you, but the less I write about you the easier it is to live. I have upset my words and in return they will not obey me. Dance! I say and yet they will not dance. Move! I say and alas they will stand still. How can I heal my soul if these words won’t help? Words lock together to make thoughts and find power in numbers. Who can resist a thought? Who could not erase a word? How many times have you forgotten you once meant that you loved? How often do you throw forgive to the beasts keeping it a deadly secret that you did not mean it? Only the words never forget, or forgive. Misuse them and they will refuse to cooperate. Deny them and they will stand locked to barbed wire. Impossible to tame them after such long time left out in the wild. Oh how I would need them, how easy it would be to start writing about my broken heart, about you. They trick me, rush forward when they can cause pain, remain hidden when they should heal. Never do they anger me, I love them just the same.

There is still hope. Nobody has taken hope from me. I hope that you will forget me. I hope that I will forget to write about you. I hope that the next time it snows where you are you will think of me. I hope that some words will forgive me and we will make sweet love to the page that awaits. I hope that one day the realness of each passing day won’t scare me. I hope your sweet memory will never leave. I hope that if I had to fade I would return again.

I hope I will.

I hope I will love again.

will you roam with me

The melody is back with me. The songs I hear when I walk amongst the most secret places. The meandering paths that lead me to self discovery, lead me to make promises I mostly will not be able to keep. The narrow walkways and wide avenues that trick me into making grandiose statements, trick me into confidently believing. The streets I tread on are filled with wondrous musical notes once again. The streets never lost the music, they lost me. The streets where sins are laid, where burdens crack the surface have lured me back to where I belong.

I see the fault at every cross, at every carefully orchestrated seamless intersection. I drag my feet through miles of filth and I hear the whimpers of injustice echoed from the loudspeakers scattered around every strategic corner. Still the music makes me fly. It brought me here. It brought me home. Now there’s a more sentimental relationship between these streets and me. The absence has tarnished the hateful sights, erased the memories that made me want to escape. Never would I leave, never would I leave you. The weakness in a moment saw me sigh with disappointment, saddened by the state of the beloved place. One comfortable reset sends us back to a time when we can start to write something new. We are yet to see where it takes us.

The power in each gently vibrating musical note forces me to quicken my hasty steps then halts me abruptly, dangerously in the middle of a traffic filled street. I let myself be guided by whatever force takes hold of me. In peaceful weightlessness I cling to the past and welcome the unforeseeable future. The past I know has been unkind at times and that I must forgive. The future I know will scrape the healthy flesh off my skin, embalm me with petty disagreements, drape me in hateful cynicism. But in an unsuspecting corner of these wicked streets, a kind stranger will wrap me in endless grace. Then the stare and smile of the envious will lay upon my halo graced head. I will fall into the evening and all these wars will come to an end.

I have missed you these streets of mine. I have missed the music, the guide that helped me take my young and inexperienced heart through the winding alleys. Braveness I have never sacrificed for weakness. Meekness I have never betrayed for strength. Without forgiveness I cannot exist. I take what I am given, stripped of traces of identity, I still know full well who I am. Show me how you would paint your world, the world in which your music and your streets exist intertwined, inseparable. I am grateful for the music and for the streets. For the humility I have been taught. For the weightlessness I have been fortunate enough to have experienced. In the hope of a better, kinder tomorrow, I stare into the moon for as long as these notes, these letters, these thoughts, these feelings, these truths lasts.

For me you last forever.

In My Blood and In My Bones

Amongst the mango trees, you’ll find Babylon: that place that saw you young. Saw you believe in the goodness of strangers. Saw you love fully and fearlessly. That place that held your hand, held your love’s hand. Held the joy that filled your heart, let it spill over in a scream, in a frantic yell of victory. And you believed that you held the key to your secrets. Believed that no-one else knew what you had discovered. There was you and there was the other, fatefully bound by one night, by one careless confession. The letters curled on the page, danced as they spelled out I love you. No trace of doubt, not one question mark, no whimpers to plant the seed of disbelief. Years went by without a question, without realising that your dreams were no longer the same as mine.

Like young lovers do, you whispered promises. Promises that grew high as heaven. Promises that had to be broken. Promises that became lies once they left your mouth. You knew that they had to be crushed, but the illusion tied you in a haze. Neither one of you wished to be freed from the grip. Comforting those times were, unparalleled was the beauty, unflinching was the hedonism with which each hour passed.

And I fell towards the evening, that sweet mist that carried this twisted hope. Yet I feel no anger or fury. I demand no explanation. Just one look from you. Just that look from the corner of your mischievous eyes throwing a careless wink and I know, so truly know that there is no other song I’d rather sing than yours. No matter how the day ends, in unruly misery or blissful contentment, I will stay in your blood and in your bones. Your careless words and loving ways will forever stay in my blood and in my bones.

You save me from being torn. Like a quiet sailboat rocking on a peaceful lake, you make space for me to rest my heavy heart on your homely deck. Together we rock to the beat of sorrow: some days slowly, some other days in a tempest of desperation and frustration. Every majestic sunset makes me bow my sinful soul to the grandness of all that surrounds us. I shudder at your grace and grow impatient when you halt my excited words. Wisdom is what is worth more, you teach me. Still, as unwise and thoughtless as I may be, there is you to show me how to guide my young heart towards peace. With you I find peace.  

Tied to me

Throw down a rope, a sturdy rope that can hold this reckless hope. Tonight you shine like no other. Tonight I want to be tied to you. I would bend to unload the burden, to hide from your innocent eyes the many evils with which I near you. Blistering hands hold the line that connect me to you. But then again, you know. Dearest sombre man of many moons, throw down a rope that can save this humble heart. That can lift the adventurous out of these lands of waste.

I want to be changed from the shadow in the tune.
Like water rushing over us, the tide pulls from the moon.

Your endless dark, scare only the weak. May those who stood out of line learn that the only way to know the truth is through your constant star. I boast no particular talent, yet the beam I feel upon my fair skin in the darkest night teaches me to see. Then those who wait far behind have a guiding light. I now know how to secure my life to your pull. How to soak in your light. How to pass on the teachings of your many visits to our lively scenery. The rope lays still untied.

I call this my garden, where sweet, reckless hope resides. Hope, that floats until it find its anchor. Day and night, labouring to harness this fickle notion. The moon stays unmoved, only heeding to the call of the tide. Then it moves and with it, you and I grab the rope to be near. In the vicinity of the magnificent barren landscape. No other force has such pull. No other force can sway masses of water out of its bed. Then you and I move with the swaying of the moon. When I find the dangling knot, I clench my useless fingers around it and wish to be pulled ever nearer to my sweet, reckless hope. Ever farther from you.

Tame these weights my master of astrology. Tame them so I can be pulled, away, to you. There are many hearts beside mine that wait for the waters to quiet, for the rope to appear. Time nears but the particulars fade. Once they have faded I no longer know how to carry you home. The glowing moon shines like any bright sun. Tonight it shines brighter than ever before. So thrown down a rope, for we want to escape. Escape the burden we have been laden with. And then stay tied to me so I can float above the land I once loved. Sail me around the parts I have missed, but never let me untie myself from the journey I now willingly undertake for an eternity. You and I, my constant moon, we shall see the good and bad and learn from each wicked heart the truths about the human spirit. Then you and I, my constant moon, we will call for the end. With bleeding hearts we will quit our travels and stay forever tied in the ether.

Then and only then can you stop your pull.
Then and only then can you part with the tide.

My Treasure, My Words.

If it weren’t for you, my words, I would be a passenger drifting through the dark night. I would spin directionless down the slippery slope of life. If it weren’t for your empowering assurance, I would have already given heed to the gravity which pulls at my heart. But I stand in the middle of an empty field, breeze rushing through the tips of my finger, the sun forcing my eyes to close at its might, confident of the solitude and loneliness. Confident of the grace with which each vain attempt brings me closer to some sort of enlightenment. Never have I been sure. Never can I be sure. Never do I want to be sure. The beauty in each word remains by the ambiguity to conquer. To command and  conquer. To rule and subject to. To stay silently in the shadows and watch from the sideline as each well placed word hits the bull’s eye.

I am half a person without my words. They clad me, protect me, empower me. I hide them from the evils of the unforgiving world. Only rarely are they allowed to face the harsh critics. I am responsible for every word I set out into the world, for they can build walls, cross oceans, bring water to deserts of sand and rock. They can pain and heal, have the power to create and destroy. We live in peaceful tranquility my words and I. It’s seldom silent or boring. It’s mostly loving, at times fearful and doubtful, but with each night passing cleared of the hasty despair of the cruel day before. We watch the sunset over hope street and hold onto each other until the next time there is reason to surface.

We nurture this dream, my words and I. The dream that cannot ever become a reality for in the process it would break arms, necks and hearts. It would maim the soul. So with all our efforts, my words and I, we nurture this dream. We stay intertwined, locked in sorrow and regret, but never allow anything to come between the sacred movements of creation. My words are mild mannered and well tamed. They long not for the bright lights of fame, only want to fulfill their destiny of silently repenting, preaching, guiding the unsuspecting reader. Together we weave webs to channel the ideas, to gently nudge each pair of eyes laid on our masterpiece towards all we know to be true. We don’t shout from the rooftop. We don’t wear ornaments that glitter or shine. We don’t call on ambivalence without purpose. We don’t aim to be anything more than what we are and in that we humbly remain.

If it weren’t for you, my words, I would be lost to the world. I would fall after each step, cry after each battle lost. I would hide like a hermit and let all moments pass me by. Without you, my words, I would never be sure. With you, my words, I can never be sure. But you help me and for that I will indefinitely stay indebted to you. Thank you. And then it hits. How would I know if this was it? How would I know for sure? How can I let you take the lead and how could I not let you lead me to wherever we need to get to together? If it wasn’t for you, my words, I would not be who I am today. If it wasn’t for you, my words, I would sit here empty and broken. If it wasn’t for you, my words, I would never know this much love. I could never give this much love.

The Shrouded Secrecy of Others

I am broken to little pieces but you see a whole.
I never knew how to do but did none the less.
I cover my body with lies to show a truthful soul.
I hate the way I look but spend hours trying to make you like me.
I seldom believe I can make it through the day but hold diplomas to say I am the best.
I don’t trust anyone around me but pretend to confide in strangers.
I pray without faith.

I am empty inside but I teach how to enrich the soul.
I am a recluse always surrounded by people.
I lied that I enjoyed your company.
I was happy to see that you were not doing better than me.
I broke your heart out of boredom.
I say I’m happy but I’ve never really been.

I am unsure if I ever wanted the life I have.
I gave up on the truth already.
I am reckless only when people are watching.
I still try to justify my decisions.
I am weak to change but dictate my terms to others.
I don’t believe in compromise but force it upon those I supposedly love.

I cheated on everything that mattered.
I can’t change but preach of a white washed soul.
I favour violence but I’m afraid in the dark.
I said you glow like the sun, I lied.
I know it was my fault but spend years arguing it never was.
I blame others to escape from the burden of responsibility.
I never said anything I meant; only what you wanted to hear.

I am glad I can’t have children but pretend to be crushed when others are present.
I fear the future but say I don’t.
I always knew I could never succeed but was too proud to quit.
I admit defeat only when it’s too late.
I pushed you away in the hope that you would come back.
I still want someone to show me how life’s done.
Saving you was an accident.

I don’t love you.
I know that you know.

You can make it better by blowing in my ear.
Can you blow until I disappear?

Kiss Each Other Clean

With your timid fingers lock the secrets that lie in each breath we took until today. I can only give a frail glance, turn around for one last time. That moment saw us weep with honest disbelief. Never would I want to change that moment for any other. You held me, for such a long time, you had me.

Then the gruesome fight took its hefty spear and pierced the grip between you and me. Loosened from your side I found myself alone. Brave and loyal, I fought so that all we believed in would regain its sense. My limbs went numb, my lips were silent, but I saw in the distance, far ahead, the shadow that turned out to be the prophet of the dead. Not out of need but want, I marched on.

That grave injustice which you did not deserve. That immense pain which ripped through your heart. Then that soothing sound calmed the frightful days. Whispers laid before you like fresh flowers from a dewy spring meadow. Just lightly touched by the sun’s tender rays. The gloomy sky held one patch of clear blue, enough to fit one person. How will you let me in? Wounded from the fight, fearful of the days to come, fumbling after the winter dark. I miss your hands, they were true to me.

I fear I will never be loved as well as I was loved by you. The constant carer. You loved not with a vivid love, not with colours or shouts. Not with dreadful heights or abysmal lows. Not with gold or silver, not with night or day. Our inexperienced love tried to hide each day. Sometimes I found it only by the afternoon, some other times it was there all along, in broad daylight for all to see. We both gave, we both lost, we both will always have. Still I fear that I may never be loved as well as I was loved by you.

I grew older, now I know pains I could not imagine before. I have to learn to seek the truth again. I know which way is back. My bag is bigger, lighter. I carry with me the days when nothing happened, still you were there. I carry nights that were unkind. I carry places that made my heart bigger. Strangers who appeared true. I carry instances that moved me. Tearful mornings when great loss was upon me. Years when I was silent and you talked endlessly. I carry pain that forever took a part of me. I carry many faces who have been good to me. Sounds that are heavenly and can never be hindered by any earthly woe.

Mostly I carry love that is on loan to me.

The Way I Lie

For the hopeless days to pass quicker. They silently whiz by. These lies are not alien or torturing. They are not evil and are not born out of vicious intent. These lies are soothing and comforting. They are hopes so distorted. These lies curl up to me, shiver at the cold and become giggling children in the warmth. With storm, rain, snow outside, they find shelter in winding around the hot radiator, the pipes zigzagging through the apartment. They find home in a place I have invited them to live in. We have been friends, they have been my confidantes. But not without price does this friendship come, this kinship in hardship. Not without the loss of innocence do these lies stay comforting the soul. They demand a part of me, leeching onto the susceptible bits, the parts of life I want different, long for to be changed. The power I have given up. I have placed it in the hands of these lies I choose to believe in. There are cold winter days when I feel like a shell, a puppet held by strings. My lies command my each and every move until they know me safe back within the four walls we have made our lives in. We have built our world in. Hanging between my darkest fears and dearest hopes.

Alone is easiest to lie. This is when the lies most confidently appear, manifest themselves in the full light. Unafraid of the crippling blow of reality or the outside world. Teasing they show their snow white teeth as they rip the pink skin off my heart. Watch it beat until I kill it with lies. Watch me lie until I leave a void behind. But they whisper. They murmur in a constant hush. They grow in confidence each and every passing day. Venture outside, on the other side of the front door. Down the corridor. Sliding down the flight of stairs until they reach the street. Nobody stops them. They are invisible to everyone else but my hands are bound by the sweet illusion, my own lies, my own confidantes and assassins. I depend on them just as much as they depend on me. I long for the still warmness of my apartment. I long for the solitude I broke by embracing these wretched lies.

I know how it ends, I even know what comes next. I still saw you there with me. There we were, a happy two. No lies, nothing but me and you. I saw our future, the mundane, expectable life. The two that would multiply. Then the lies could be stopped, could be contained and banished back into the pipes they so adore, purr when they wrap themselves around. You could help me. Or is that a lie? That I could love you well? Not with anger or revenge would I depart with the lies but with a rapid, almost astronautic speed I would forget. Forget the existence of, forget the choking grip of, forget the burning clench of, my lies.

Who created you? Was it I? Why do you fight so hard the real emptiness? Why does it hurt you? Just stay for now. Expect no threat from the outside, all is calm on the other side. Stay and enjoy the warmth, the company I can offer. Stay and make me believe that when the time comes I will be able to forget you with an astronautic speed. Promise you won’t outstay your welcome. Promise you won’t break that precious part of me. Promise you will leave the heart intact. Then I might call you again, my lie. My life.

Singer songwriters always wear chequered shirts

Because it’s homely and comfortable. Because it’s soft and comforting. Because the truth that leaves their lips pierces their own and their listeners hearts, so the clothing must remain comfortable. The songs hurt when they are born and hurt throughout their lives. Each time they are re-sung there is blood dripping on the inside. The words enslave their creator and the notes bind the hands of the master who conjures them. Just as the poor troubadour would learn to make peace with the pain of the song, a sudden wave of hurtful memories arrive on a freshly tuned guitar string. And then the chequered shirt remains the only comfort, a piece of home far away from home. For the job must be done, the songs must be written and sung. They must find the ears of those who will heal from them, even if they slowly kill the one who made them, who sings them. Night after night, the worn out soul, the one who rips old wounds open, deserves at least a comfortable shirt on his back. On her back.

Then there is the void. The companion who travels with the lonesome artist. Only in darkness, only in solitude will the murmurs be heard and the soul filled, the hands in motion, the instrument in full bloom, the words in ecstasy, dancing around the notes. Only then will the songs be born. And with the painful birth will the void disappear. Then they get ready, the artist and the words, the notes and the memories, the feelings and longing, to show others of their existence. To show that never are they alone. Only the creation desires solitude, then the beast becomes hungry for fame, light, audience and applause. The beast mars the soul of the artist from the inside, but wants to be let go, to swim in the joy of attention. And with that duality does a singer songwriter choose a chequered shirt for his back. For her back.

These boys and girls, with hearts full of love and songs full of forgiveness embark on journeys each performing night. Very few I take with them, but mostly it’s their songs, their instruments and their shirts who know exactly how one night is different from the other. They are the ones who are there when the new adventures take place. They are there to accompany and witness, to then demand a new addition to the gang. They are there to love and to hurt. And each coming night, with these shirts, these boys and girls make the burden of the world a little lighter. That’s why a singer songwriter always wears a chequered shirt, it reminds them of the responsibility and the weight to the word home.