In this rain: we are golden

Ridiculous self doubt, never ending, unwilling to appease, to appear kinder in these dark lights. Your success brings a deadly blow to all that we have been slowly building. The pages written should be burnt. The notes sung should go forever quiet. This is the power you have over us. It seems that feeding off of you is no longer an option. You bloom and we retreat. These times are trying, I have never pretended they were otherwise. We are preparing to celebrate your every success. The clothes we chose, the way we brush our hair a little different, the soap is even new, our bodies smell like spring blossoms, like clean bed linen. All this just for you. Because you asked. Because you love to shine but love to blind even more.

Mostly I am speechless, taken aback by what you are able to create. Then grow sad when my futile efforts are placed next to your magnificent ways. Only in my mind, the truth can never reach daylight, can never breathe to see what I see. There is a whole army of us, talentless fools. There is a swarm of us weeping court jesters, looking into a mirror and seeing our forgetful reflections. The halo, the glory, only you deserve. This gang of bandits, silently hoping to steal that which cannot be stolen from you, ever, is now harmless. What you posses is yours to forever have. What we cannot have, we cannot get through wit or sheer force. This has been and forever will be the most miraculous challenge: to accept our own debilitating limits. To accept my own crippling truth of a talentless existence. Like a spear through a noble heart, stops the beating, starts the overflow of life escaping in rivers of blood.

In the face of such adversary, in the face of facts, there is no chance to fight. No chance to change. For fleeting moments we think we are golden. Then those moments pass and we are back, landed safely, opened our parachutes just at the right time. We are back to being ourselves, our common, forgettable selves. We watch those better than us, those who have been chosen, who have been bestowed with talents ridiculous. May they shine longer, brighter, better. Our greatness lies in not what we are unable to achieve and pass trying, but what we are able to accept and embrace, whose creation we are able to praise and gulp, mould into our souls. And here you have won. I will surrender and point to your masterful ways when asked what I had aimed to say with the words that I had temporarily borrowed. Borrowed they were, never mine, never really mine.

You fly on the backs of beautiful stars. The glitter is real gold on the tips of your fingers, on your strict eyelashes. I bow in amazement, turn to the night to shelter me like always. To allow me to create for me. Even if nobody reads. Even if what I can do, can never be anything remotely as good as what you can do. You are truly golden. I am merely reflecting the light.

Never Let Me Go

If these Heavens can hear the words uttered by the many mouths that attempt in each second to save themselves, then let these words ring loud. Let them tear apart the velvet drapes that cover the sacred ornaments. Let them ripple far and wide, let them hurt the ears of those who never bend to change. Let these words sail aimless, let them reach dry land unexpected. Let strangers kneel and bow to their beauty. If at night there is still a deity alert, let the words woo its wandering soul and hone it so: to forever hold on. To endure. Through hardship and trials, through unthinkable obstacles and spirit crippling injustices. Through dense forests and even murkier waters. To survive. Through betrayal and back stabbing, through disappointment and a mountain of sin. To stay amongst the living, to strive for a better soul. I have long ceased to shine. You, you are a shadow lurking in the back of my mind. 

This is how it has been, for far too long. The vastness of my soul lying empty, wasted away, eaten by rust that attacks like the most ferocious enemy. There is no threat of overflow, no danger of a sudden rise and counter attack. You hold me captive, but it is solitary confinement. I cannot escape and slowly wither away. Each attempt at freedom kills the courage inside. Each cry for freedom is lost in the cacophony of tears and insults slurred at your outline. For nobody can see. You hide away. Like a master puppeteer you hold all the strings and move me against my will. I wish to not go forward, but you make me smile. This is me, this rotting soul, this darkness that drenches my every living minute. This is me, unable to smile, always on the lookout for a faint slimmer of hope. Forever disappointed, retreated from the blinding lights of your ways, of your illusion of hope. 

Still, I plead, turn to Love and deliver this soliloquy. I am neither worthy, nor unworthy of your precious gifts. I have never deserved these blessings. Never have I committed a sin so great to merit a punishment so severe. I can never hope for the grace of Love, I can never fathom why it would go amiss, elude my life. Hold off on these thoughts, hush them, keep them unformed then tie a rope around their necks. They must never see the light of day. But in the moment of desperation, in the approaching sense of deliverance I mime these words: never let me go. With each breath gaining strength. With each stroke of the old palm the embers inside forever suppressed start to glow. The air fans their insatiable desire to burn. That they do. I turn my head towards the sun and whisper: I am a sinner. The words are carried on the back of the winds, they are coy but playful. They may not land them where intended. This is a risk I must take. In the middle of this land where no flowers grow, where the skies are forever grey, where the cries are muffled by the sheer muscle power of the ones keeping guard. I will not be beaten down for much longer. I will not allow for my words to stay silent. With an enviable breath I take to form my mouth to say: never let me go. And it is heard. No longer a whisper, no longer just outlines, no longer inanimate or a dream. The words are heard, their power unstoppable. I have drawn attention to myself, these shackles are being lifted and I can finally see. The words call on the arms of the ocean to cover me. Ever louder, ever stronger, ever clearer I seem to be unable to stop them. Love, I seem to be unable to stop these words that are intended for your ears. Never let me go. How confidently they march and I let them. Never let me go, never let me go.  

See how long I have waited? See how my whole has shrivelled? See how I am barely recognisable? I am finally where I want to be, close to you, almost able to touch, to see. You will forgive me, I hope. These past wrong doings will be wiped clean and I will no longer fear my own voice. Hold me now. Hold me Love and let me hear the words from your mouth to my ears: I will never let you go, never let you go.

This old soul, you good man, will wait for you

The ripples of the world, the ebb and flow, the currents which sail good intentions and bad alike will one day reach our lands. They already do every day. Travel down rivers that are murky at best, carrying filth, carrying a burden from far away, unknown beds. They travel on the backs of magnificent waves that crash uncontrollably, break the rhythm, the predictable cycle of life, death, rebirth. These undeniable truths about the human spirit soar, on the backs of eagles roam all lands. They fall to the ground like snowflakes that may cover or destroy. The sharp edges of the water freezing in the smallest places imaginable. Inside a cell. Inside a heart, inside a den that keeps little ones from giving up their lives to the cold. These truths, the ones that teach us about ourselves, hold a mirror. They are constant. Through the passing of time remain unchanged. Thankless objects, mirrors, murmurs that grow into a screeching echo, they all order a halt. How we must all stop at once. Watch as the eagles fly above, unwrap the truths that we understand and stay alert for the ones that are about to hit us. 

The disappointment escalates and I can no longer find even a fragment of your soul worth fighting for. Sadness covers my days but only until I understand that it is I who must change. The process leaves my soul aged, old and used, almost too frail to pick up and start again. Too few have been the good men. Too many were the temptations and the soul could not withstand the battering. It withered away, turned into a monster unrecognisable to everyone around. Shrinking with each lie, with each word hanging heavy on its mind: to outdo itself, to raise itself straight, to never bow its head to those who are out to conquer and cripple it with stark notions of deceit. You have scarcely done good. Your spirit has seldom seen the light with which it was once filled. The world drenched in sin has overflowed and dirtied the spirit which you possess. You cannot shake the excess.  

It is difficult to gain coherency, to allow a sense of hopefulness to enter the days that are heavily guarded by grey clouds and clouts of doubt. Your father has been just as weak as you. He has bowed to the same lords you do. He mistook power for righteousness, grace for authority and boldness for love. He thought himself strong, but died with a broken spirit so in need of mending that the angels first carried him to their infirmary. Only then was he allowed to account for his deeds before the gods. All your fathers, all your mothers, their fathers and their mothers, all fathers and all mothers in history and time recorded have fallen short of the glory. We venture onto the same paths and can only hope that we have learnt from past mistakes. Their mistakes are ours to fix. Their spirit is ours to mend. Our lives are for those after us to judge. 

I plead with God, night after night, day after day, to show me a good man. I plead with the Maker to make me worthy of a good man. Humour me, please. But these good men are hard to come by and the soul grows older with each obstacle, with each trial set before it. Some temptations it cannot resist. The wait at times seems endless. In the wait both our souls are corrupted. You are pulled to become conceited and I am pushed to become latent then righteous. A sea of sadness covers me, I am inconsolable. Through tears that are not my own I feel my spirit rise. Rise to shed the mistakes of those before me. Rise to seek power in the efforts of humility. Rise to move towards the light that will paint it gold. I raise my hands, slowly. I turn my old soul, my still malleable body towards the warm. The voice inside like a restless hurricane waits for the moment it is finally let out. Then like a thundering echo that rings endlessly between two gaping cliffs: I will wait for you. These words send cracks to the abyss, return with a time lapse, all still and motionless when the cry from the bellows of the spirit is released again: I will wait, I will wait for you. 

like a warrior

This is her, armed to the teeth, focused and determined. This is her, the warrior. Resilient, motionless up until the very last moment. She holds her position, stands like a statue, will not move an inch, no sound, no wind can distract her. The fight is that which you never could fight. She fights for what you never even realized. For the things you walked by. Take a look. Take a good look. She is flawless in her spirit. She is hardened like stone on the outside, she is every fibre ready to jump, every muscle pulled tight to attack. The fire in her eyes is dim, barely visible, the hair is pulled back, orderly, tight. The marks under her eyes stop the sun. Stops the sun in its tracks. Atop a cliff she stands. Resolute she asks for no permission, she negotiates with no-one. 

We need a warrior, we need her badly. Strayed souls distract us, make us believe that there is no other way but through cheats and lies. The world is muddled and our place in it covered in dense fog. Step to the right and you have fallen off the track. Step to the left and you are trapped by marshlands. We take the course, the path that has been paved, the crooked and broken path that leads to a certain and imminent demise. All along she stands atop that cliff, all along we take no notice. We carefully choose our fights, the more strenuous ones do not make the list. Those forced on us are also weeded out, nipped in the bud, never fully fought. This is no baptism of fire. Leaving a fight unfought leaves the soul unable to mature. Leaves the heart heavy from the missed glory of a battle won, from the missed glory of a battle lost.  

These are the things you must fight. Here is your list. You may choose to arm, you most probably will sit back and wait for this warrior angel to descend and fight your fights for you. These are the things you must fight. You must fight the untrue heart. You must fight those who perceive wrongly, those who cannot find compassion. There is a long line of those who will need to be fought because they are not humble, because they boast inappropriately. Because they forge alliances with the wicked, twist their tongues to slur untruthts. Fight those who judge, fight them till your last breath. Fight those who measure your worth to theirs. You must take every opportunity to fight those who shut their windows and doors to those in need. Firstly, you must fight the hearts that are hardened.

She is ready. With every second past, in a tense craze, assuming the ever looming, the inevitable position. Already launching an attack in her mind. This warrior is no ordinary warrior. This warrior is the saviour of our souls. Her lean legs stand firm, her eyes fixed far ahead on the intangible evil she will have to meet. Meet for us. That she will gladly destroy for us. This warrior is in you, this warrior is you. You are absolute in your thoughts for others. You must be absolute in your quest for the truth. You must fight your inner complacency to arrive at forgiveness. Then you must forgive. You must tighten your muscles, ready your mind, harness the silence around you. Soon it will be your turn. Soon you will have to fight. Then all eyes will look towards you as you shine in the setting sun’s glowing golden yellow hue. They will know that this is no ordinary warrior. They will know that you have come to conquer that which has been lost a long, long time ago. You must fight. These are your days. Your days to live like a warrior. To fight like a warrior.

Queen of Elba

You talked of that barren land. Those sights were never sore to your weary eyes. You had seen what most could never dream of. You have walked those paths, paved with once molten now frozen rocks. You climbed to the highest point, the fog covered the hills and valleys. You could only see two colours: black and grey. Mostly it was cold, the sun never warmed these lands. The trees were banished, the hills erupted with burning rocks, life was wrapped in a sulphuric haze of toxic yellow. Everyone escaped in time, before the last standing bush succumbed to such hostility. But it was my home is what you cry to me. These are the words you uncontrollably shout into my ears. Sobbing, vehemently resisting you whimper after much force is exerted on your fragile limbs to calm the ecstasy. But it was my home. My home.
 

These rivers seem powerless to your force. The sky unmoved by your fury. With the words “I command” you start each sentence. Still. There is nobody to hear, the echo of your words amplify, ring fiercely loud, boast as ambassadors to their keeper, chasing unwanted subjects deep under ground. They are just words, empty, hollow, weak words. The powers you once had have been stripped, there is nobody on this island but you. Not another soul. Your heavy eyes are lifted, if there was danger I would seek shelter. Your heavy eyes are lifted and with a roaring thunder you charge. Closer and faster to where you hear your echoes loudest. The cliff stops you, NO, you let out a thundering cry, a shout so resonant that it cracks the boulders unable to move. Then furious you gather your forces, men of armour, mirages in a sweltering cold, patches of clouds cover the exact number of your army. The task is to find and kill, to find and maim, to find and eradicate those who do not obey. On your lead they all follow, hundreds of minions, valiant men of loyalty, subjects to be crushed. The lands shake as the sea of your army pass by. Fear rides alongside, mouth foaming fury sits beside, devilish eyes navigate through rocks, black sands, dried riverbeds.

I have seen your soul. Through those eyes the deep and profound sadness. You are banished, stripped of your men. You are banished, no longer ruler of anyone, of any land. This is what has been done, plotted against you, stabbed in the back, banished for good to this island of barrenness. You still roam but no longer charge. The men have vanished, the cold winds blow through your cloak. Suddenly everything lost colour. The trees died, the blue in the sky turned grey, the green hills were taken over by sand that turned vicious, menacing black. The colour of death, the colour of your demise. Now you rule these waterless lands, these hills which lose rocks, these pastures of quicksand, these shores of murky, dense, blackness. You rule over nobody. The deep, heartbreaking sadness in you has turned everything hard, brittle, unable to melt. In moments of weakness you remember, then in fury you destroy.

Sounds from far away greet me as I step foot on your island. Your hair has grown, your cloak dirty from the endless roaming. The winds have eaten away at you, pale skin that never found the sun. Slowly you come closer. I bow. This boat is for you, for you to leave. Your voice has not lost its power, your eyes burning without me meeting them. You can crown me the queen of Elba. I’m never coming home. Your majesty, this boat is for you. You can leave. The silence gives rise to angst, I look up. You are gone, vanished. Your steps light, your sound inaudible. The winds cover you, the howling winds clear the traces of your salty scent. These lands now hold you, these barren lands have taken your soul. I now understand that you are never coming home.

Towards The Sun

In this state of superfluous bliss there is only one way to reach the water. The humming, constant, the ever changing water. The one that silently guides, teaches, shows a better version of the self when all other facets have run dry. I trace my steps, careful to stay in line with the banks of the river. To follow its curves and currents towards all that which is unknown. In this state of unsure measures the steps become light, much lighter than in times of certainty. Resting for a while then gazing far ahead, accepting what is to come, seeing for the first time what has been unseen for an immeasurable time. On the surface of the water the ice is stirring. Uneasy the state of these blocks, unsure when they must melt or sink. Then they all are pulled into the unending depths of the powerful, spring hungry river. This is unseen by anyone.

These things you sing to me, I lose sight of. How wonderful those days were, how hopeful amidst the hopeless trap of winter. The icicles leaving their marks on the trees outside. The frozen landscape draped in a winter hue, blue and grey. The hills hostile, the sky menacing, the creatures all hidden or bad mannered from the tiresome fight for existence. Still, you held my hand and guided me to the place you say is the same in sun, same in ice. Shielded from the unforgiving winds of the north I stood to watch the magnificent view below. This is where the heart stops. This here, you said, is where it all ends. The silence like a concrete block crushed our lungs, I was left speechless. In this frozen world, in this silent, frost ridden empire, this motionless landscape all but one of your words stayed with me. You said it was this way towards the sun. The flickering light shined through the withered branches. It almost blinded me. I was unsure of the path, missed the water and seemed to be terrified of the timeless consequence of winter. An imprint, a moment captured, endless slumber until spring stirs. You had a glint in your eyes, you enjoyed this cool mannered world. I slowly started seeing what you had wanted to show me. We set off, in silence, to reach the place where we could finally see the sun. 

This place we come back to, this present that we engulf our lives in is neither calm nor hectic. The answers are gathered in a neat and orderly fashion for each query that may arise. There are things we may want and will be able to have. There are things we want and will never have. There are things we never want and will learn to accept. You accept me and in turn, I accept you. Winter accepts its inevitable demise to spring. Spring, the coy and uncourteous, never realising the responsibility that lies in defeating winter. Abundant self confidence, almost beyond tolerable arrogance. Spring descends and we are all lured into its childishly free, carelessly loving tricks, spectacles of blossoms, ridiculous scents, amazing sights. Winter leaves, saddened and bitter, once again hardened by the maltreatment and adamant in returning with a vengeance. Be kind, all of you, be kind to winter. Marvel at its sights, at its doing. Wish for the silence to linger, for life to halt its business a little longer. Be in no hurry to see the sun, be in no hurry to want the cold to go.

In the end it is just me and you, resting our hearts on the river’s bank. We missed the great reprise, almost missed the day that looked like all other days of winter. You remind me. You remind me why it is that we must slow with the river in the cold, why it is most rewarding to be not seen when paraded. There is a secret in how we see the days in each season. The light is somehow kinder now. The illusion is a part of you, it will always be a part of me. I teach you to love the river, love it like I do. You teach me to love winter, to love it like you do. In this frost covered jungle, Amazonian whites and Saharan blues greet us each day. We are not surprised, never caught off guard. We let the winds lift the heavy burden from our hearts, then weightless we hope there is just enough time to reach the sun. We hurry, in every season, we hurry towards the sun. I wait for you, like all other times, I wait for you to take my hand and lead me strongly towards the sun.

How these hearts they stop

It seems easy for you. The pace of life, the phases that pass through. Understanding the knots and how we must tangle then untangle. I envy the ease with which you talk of your aspirations, the things that you have learnt to naturally desire. You say that you have thought it through and now know, most certainly know what you want. We sit in silence. I turn to the wall and wish I had it figured out like you. The silence is not broken for a long time. Uncomfortable. Then I sigh a desperate sigh.

You know the winter winds one day will settle down.

You know the talk of spring will push us off the ground.

It was never clearly spoken, just assumed. These things do not need to be taught, they are absolute. Measures by which we live our lives, rights and wrongs, the essence which drips through our mother’s milk drop by drop to fill the core of the soul. These things that make up the path that we must follow. Unquestioning some stand in line whilst others who do not know how or cannot, yearn. Some do not want and frown at everyone who tries to steer them towards the rights they believe to be true. Do. Not. Ever. Impose your beliefs on me. Do. Not. Ever. I become a virtual tagger and my sentences like golden quotes appear on every street corner that you pass. I am enclosed in frames, you were never free. 

These things I must quickly learn. The hurt is too deep, the parts that die with everyone who leaves cripple the soul. Soon I will be unable to stand, soon I will wither away with the last of them. These days are unbearable to me, even just the thought. Should I blame those who never showed me how it really would be? Stay in this cocoon, stay sheltered from the winds and the rain, never see the snow, never climb to see the sun rise or set. I am not happy knowing, I am devastated if I learn that I was not taught or told. Here lies the responsibility, the unending task of those who decide to become responsible. Teach them not just how it naturally occurs, but also how these choices can be made to better or worsen. To ruin or just be. One day we will all be left standing by an open grave.

There are some things so hard I wish they wouldn’t bruise.

Everyone that you loved you will one day you will lose.

When these temporary times are up, we must sum up the things done right or wrong and take leave. I have learnt to love. I have learnt to accept. I have learnt that I am responsible for all things that I create. I have learnt that I am the maker of my own magical potions. Some days I succeed at being a sorcerer. This here is what I have conjured, it may constitute some kind of cure. But then you weep. Weep endlessly because all is not how you envisioned it would be. You were taught different. You were taught there is no end and now the gaping hole inside you is killing off the parts still alive. This is how disappointed must feel like. This is how living must be like.

These wonderful hearts stopped. With no warning at all. Now you are alone, the pain will outlive your memories. You fell to your knees just as they slowly took their grace. A busted thief is what you are. Not to be trusted, not to be cared for. You took the last minutes and hold them ransom, never letting anyone else have them. Never letting anyone else into that secret pact. I was never taught to know death. I cannot learn now how to be with you. The tears pull me closer, the mutilated soul holds me captive and I grieve with you. Just until the sun shines a little stronger. Until we learn together that the past cannot be made present and that the present is only here momentarily. Just until it slips back into the past again.

You know these winter winds will soon be settling.

Even the sun will shine, one day it will be spring.

Regret is a kind keeper

I can feel the gentle pull. I can feel the seductive ways of complacency. Blaming the lack of time or the lack of motivation, turning away from the one thing that is the cause of such great pleasure. Such impossible pleasure. I must beg for help. Help to find my way back. Through thick glass, through mirrors that bend each and every way, distort the path, the vision. Through this tempting forest of savagery, through fire and lazy afternoons, I try to find my way back to the source of such great pleasure. The way back to my words. My precious words that keep me in line and hold my broken heart when the gentle snow covers the cracks on the sidewalks outside. Softly, melodiously, gently, almost invisibly covering all the lands, one flake at a time.

Regret holds me hostage, a kind and deceptive keeper. Almost unseen, almost hidden from the heart that is pure. Only in moments of doubt, in moments of grandeur does it appear and then full blast drills holes in the heart, in the soul. We know each other by first names, there is nothing I have not let regret have in my life. The open sea is my refuge. On a makeshift raft I pedal towards fear. Each moment closer, determined to reach dry land, but the sands greeting me on the shore cut my bare feet, burn the soft skin, play with me like fire burning. But it is still regret that saves me, still fear that pushes me. The road chosen will be the one I turn back from should I have the power. Wearily keep walking and with longing eyes look back at the distance travelled. The distance seems impossible to retract and my choice is only that to march forward. No chance to pause or rewind. Regret is a kind keeper, seldom allowing to glance backwards, abundantly giving rise to better the self at the craft, path, mission chosen. Regret is a kind keeper, unspoken.

You should stay unconcerned. These things that I dream, these words that I write, these turbulent waters that I navigate are steered well clear of you. I may never make it to shore. I may never find home. I may never see anything but these stick figures trying to point me in the right direction. And the incredible weight, the tethering pull of the anchor blinds me with pain. My heart breaks every time. Breaks every time for you. My path is covered with thorny vines, traps and mirages. The burden of your presence would kill us both, I must leave and you must stay. Be the keeper of your own illusions. Set the wind in my sails and fasten these friends: regret and fear, then gently continue, silently depart, aim for murkier, shallower, different waters. We are off. Make sure you never long for me again. Make sure your heart has cut all chords to mine. Only like this can we ever be free.

My time may never come. It may never be more than this: it may never be bigger, it may never be truer, it may never be more honest. I may be forgotten, left lying in the arms of regret. Like a beast then regret will hold the parts that are valuable and nobody will ever find. If this is my fate then let it be. If I am to put up a fight, then let the struggle begin. This is my story, one for nobody else to write. I may end up dead in the water, I may sail my ship of safety then sink it. I may find the courage to open my heart to you, I may never have the power to let you back in. I might befriend my kind keeper, eventually find  a sunny afternoon to escape from my self made prison. I may be all right then.

I may just be fine the way I am.

a terrible love

It is both disheartening and softly suffocating to have to wait for you. It is unsure how long you will still be. Time is a homogenous substance for you. It swallows you whole, engulfs you lovingly, just tight enough to enjoy the endless swim. Then you forget, in that euphoric lapse, in the desert like endless flowing sands of time you forget that you are to step out and commit to the meeting you arranged a while back. Not something that anyone will remind you of, the voices inner and outer are muffled underwater in time’s magical pool. Like slow falling snow quietens any busy city, brings its siren filled beating lanes to a sudden halt. All is better, unimaginably kinder with snow covered streets. Nothing to disturb the thoughts, no loud engines to snap those actually lost in thought back into the land of unsavoury rules. My yells are mere whispers but only when the winds are kind enough to blow in your direction. Hurry is what I yell. Fury is what you at times hear.
 

If the wait did not have its control over me, did not change me into a person inapt and inpatient, then I could have my peace with it. The wait is fading, like you forget to arrive, I forget to wait for you. To ready my heart, to ready my soul. I am caught off guard and walk past you for I am not ready. In every instant you could arrive and I have not been making way. That is you walking towards me but I rush on, busy attending to matters unimportant in their entirety. Then it might be too late. I fear it is already too late. Time’s seductive softness has kept you captive or I have missed the smiling face of opportunity all together. Fear has the greatest power and I cannot tell which is worse, your absence or my failure to commit to the wait.

 

It’s a terrible love. It is terribly absent. It is terribly distant in its hope of ever existing.

Oh, take it all away

There is an almost inevitable course that matters run through. Inevitably finite and calculated. Little room is left for the imagination to roam. For things to mould freely into shapes they desire. We may try to elude the force with which it winds down streets and roads we inhabit, but inevitably we must succumb and follow rank, accept that there is a course things must take. Unchangeable by decree, but soft for reshaping by the love and nurturing of the human spirit. The untameable goodness in mankind. Limiting, but in reality only challenging our collective creative effort to trick the straight into believing it is curved.  

Life hardens the soul. Inevitably hardens the desires and forces, secretly steals those instances that allow the want for grace to grow. With each year passing, the wall closing becomes less and less penetrable. The light that sifts through becomes less and less powerful. The sounds that crackle, secretly appearing, are never loud enough to lure all ears. Faintly we hold back. The soul knows no other way but to retreat in the face of such visceral force. The midnight silence amplifies the hearts that beat together, echoes that resonate the membrane malignantly growing between people, between souls that once wanted, ached for unity. Like stone statues, weathering sun and snow, frozen in time, motionless, we wait for life to take its course. For others to pass by. For hope to never have a chance of escaping this man-made hell.

Here is hope. How beautiful, how fragile. Hope never paraded its frail little body to tease those who saw it. Now almost invisible, translucent in the moonlight, powerless in the face of such adversaries. We must take arms, fight on the side of hope. Protect its right to exist in the hour of such inevitable times. Such predictable times, such dry and humourless times.

This journey will start without you. This journey I must take starts with only me. The dark alleys, the endless fields of luscious crops, bending in the wind, turning towards the sun, these woods that shelter lives interconnected below lifeless leaves and needless twigs, this is the way I must lead. Charge ahead in great confidence, yet stop for each and every soul that I catch a glimpse of. In time, in hope, I may catch sight of you. These days are so much more hopeful than the ones we are leaving behind. These moments of pain, locked in time and unable to escape or find forgiveness chain my heart back to the starting line. To start over and have a second chance. To come out of a maze just to enter again. Get lost in the idea that there is hope fighting the great battle inside hearts and souls.

a return to previous misgivings

There are moments that outlast all other moments. Instances that burn. There are words regretfully let loose, deeds unchangeable. There is sincere remorse and masked apology. There is revenge, hatred, an unending suffering caused out of carelessness. There is a limit to the cruelty with which we treat each other. There is the limit of time. Amidst the dark there is at times, light.

It is hardest to be visible, bare and unmasked. It is hardest to say the words and not write them. Yet the journey is ending and another bound to begin shortly. I have used you. Used you and your time alike. Much like a rambunctious child, I have needed your attention to sooth the worries and doubts, the aches of enduring the never apparent success. Faithful and loyal companion, you have done great service. Your sacrifice will not go unnoticed or unmentioned. Thank you.

In turn lean your weight, any time, lean so I can hold your worried soul. I would do that and much more. Like a stone firmly locked in sand, constantly ground to the bone, I am washed over and away, but steadily withstanding. Enduring web of interlocking crystals, ready to hold your lean body forever. In time, in history we will always remain. Stay a print between heavy armoured skeletons, pressing layers of endless rocks.

I will now take my words of sorrow and doom and turn them into glittering memories of silver and gold. I wrote as well as I could. I will continue but plan not to insist your assistance, I will not take your time or hope. If you wonder what previous writings were about, know this: I have not gained or lost love. I have not hurt or been hurt. I have not lost my way but stay constantly searching. I have been broken and often mended. I have been cast aside and walked the hellish path back to existence. I have experienced kindness and cruelness. I have given but taken far more. I overstayed my welcome and have given up on hope. I have not seen or done anything different to you. I have lived.  

‘til there never really was at all

These last few days, the last few chances, the remorseful but unapologetic ending. Here I am, unable to resist and in deep mourning for all that I am about to let go. Longing eyes looking back, searching ahead. There were times of great achievement and moments of grandeur. There were days and months dipped in sorrow, rightful breaking of spirit and heart. Nothing compared to the loneliness, that elevating freedom of my untamed soul. Gulping in chunks the unmelted injustices stirred my way. Each and every moment of repression lead to fearless liberation. Like in history countless times, in quotes taken from men and women of power, the spirit shall never and can never be caged. Not through hardship of the body or torment of the mind. Nothing of the sort befell me, just some self imposed shackles, murderous chains to cut the warm blood bringing life to my fragile heart. I alone survived. Look, I have survived!

Some nights I feel hollow. Empty and meaningless, insignificant and useless, important to too few. At times I want to bring an abrupt end, see how that would play out. Then I quickly dream of a prolonged showing of this wondrous story. The constant push and pull, the cold and warm, summer and winter, the icicles and the scorching heat, they all teach me patience. Agreeable as the morning landscape appears to me, the smiling faces of familiarity, the soothing sounds or the balmy early air, I still often wish it away. Wish to change it for something new. Unseen and unrecognised, my restless soul would like to wonder, roam the vast lands of nothing, the arid deserts of lovelessness. I could lose myself. Lose the burden of mediocrity.

The change must come from within. I think I have known that all along. These words were just feigning to create an illusion. How long before it gets easier I wonder. I have waited far too long, wasted much too much time. It seems I am still not ready, there is still some waiting to be done. Knowledge to master, experiences to fill my young heart. Sadness has not been able to grow strong its roots in my soul. Sorrow has not had the chance to fully unpack its grey canopy over all I know to be true. Then come and conquer, I have never resisted much, just enough to learn the tricks then stepped aside. I have made a good home for the bitter winds and torturing loneliness, the sharp instruments that sometimes were called hurtful words. I used them like an apprentice tries the tools of his trade. Used them and made cuts, wounds on some innocent bystanders, friends, familiar lovers. Now I beg for forgiveness. How I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive.

I am yet to make sense of everything around me. I know parts of my soul, but not the whole. I know how sadness feels. Know how deeply it can cut, how silently it penetrates skin, tissue, sinew, muscle, bone. I know how comforting lonely seems, how invisibly it settles to choke one capillary at a time. I know my place between sorrow and alone, fight to portray them lovely and friendly, but know that they are killing the most precious gift: hope. Still I turn a blind eye, embrace these cloaked enemies for they help to conjure the words late at night. For as long as I can, as long as it can continue I try to waltz toward the unseen, all the while chained to the known evil. I go on, there is nothing else I know to do. I continue into the early hours, with tears streaming down my cheeks, blood gushing from my heart, aches and pains in my fingers. In the hope of a promise, in the faint hope that one day all this will change. In the hope that I can be better, that my words will have power, that I will overcome the sadness. I continue but secretly know that most efforts are in vain, are nothing but hollow tries at changing the set ways of destiny. I know that to walk this path means marching endlessly. Marching towards that which never really was at all. 

This year's love

Is this. You are reading it. Or not. Makes little difference because it is not your love, it might not even be anything you like. It may make you feel uncomfortable, uneasy, confused by the senseless and orderless arrangement of words and sometimes emotions which are hard to decipher. When you feel adventurous you begin, mostly you never do. As abundant as my heart is, my words can only be my love. So complete. Grounding force which keeps me sane, which allows me to unmask. Completely. For you just a pastime, just something to do while the rain washes the trees outside. While the snowstorm subsides. But my soul moves with each letter typed. Stirs from its motionless sleep and looks forward to parading the beautiful creation, the curves and luscious harmonies of certain words leaning against the other. Like lovers hidden, like lustful glances across the room, like two people waiting to accidentally meet: be at the same place at the same time. These are my loves and I harbour no anger if you cannot join in. This for me is a lonely road, a solitary journey on which you can be company, but by no means are forced to take part.

This year’s love is unspoken, softly hanging in the shadows, gently rising to open the doors and windows. Then I see. Maybe only for a moment, but that decisive moment covers all doubt, rips the shaky esteem from the place of unsure and plants it straight in the middle of all that is visible. I become visible to those who choose to see. Bare but almost nonchalantly proud, I allude to my successes but only faintly. Only very quietly, most are unable to hear and therefore cannot judge. This is a fragile love, a fragile heart, not meant to stand the battering or praise. I am to grow on this journey. I alone have all the world to learn. You may know already the things I discover, may be bored by the things I decide to put on paper, but this is my path. My way of walking, of being.  My soul is young, forgive me if you already know the sentence that follows before I even think to continue the thought. You could never hurt me. These words live for me and they were chosen in this order to represent, help me with the treacherous road that I must walk in life to get to the end. This is how it is easier. This is how I will make it to the very end.

I want nothing more than for these words to have a chance to be free. I fear for their successes, their failures. We cover each other, shelter from the cold, be the fire that burns inside. With them at times I burn. Alone or not, heard or not, read or not leads to the same conclusion, the same end result, because nothing else separates me from you. Only these words, only these fleeting moments, these elusive and indifferent times that teach me all I need to know about myself. I am slowly saved. Saved from the savage reality forced upon my generation. Saved to become in wholeness all that I ever want to be. Saved to be free and content in this undertaking which will see me fail, see me hurt, see me turn from the single most fulfilling thing I know to exist in this life. This is why I write. This is why I try to write. 

This year’s love is this. You are reading it. You may like it, mostly you do not. I may need you to keep reading or I may let you go at the very top, give you permission to leave, allow you to fill the gaps on your own accord, how you wish it to continue. I will love you no matter how you choose, so will my words. We will love you in darkness and in pain. Secretly we know that what you decide to not read or read has resonated, dislodged the deeply buried, hurtfully hidden parts. Here is safe, you can run away or stay. Cry or stay solemn. Sturdy through the storm or broken by the wildly falling summer rain. This year’s love is this. You and me and these words. This year’s love will last until my heart is torn no more. 

These words. The same heart.

Nothing is as violent as the sadness inside your heart. The constant, irresolute, the nameless pain which takes all the empty space in your heart. Underneath the surface you are stone. The softness of the falling snow, the gentle words that fly towards you softly courting your ears are unable to move you. You cry. This is not how you wish to be. The icicles are unable to melt on your fingers, the cold air outside cannot send chills down your back. The silent sadness is how you breathe, it is what keeps you alive, it is what breeds inside and allows you to create, to be. You cannot part with it, you do not know how. You cannot stop its growth. Like a malignant tumour that destroys you, like a lifeline of a blood vessel that saves you: this sadness is rooted deeply in you. No surgeon could fix you, no words could unplant it from your fragile heart. It is you.

There is a knot in your stomach and the words are gathering. With each beat they become braver, almost fearless and demand to be released. Obnoxiously confident, they have arrived at the page, clad with bulging hopes and aspirations. Just for a moment, for only a fleeting moment, life quickly escapes them. Then fear is securely locked back where the words came from. Fear of failure. Fear of uselessness. Fear of mediocrity. The crippling sadness is never lifted from your heart, even in instances when it seems to burn. All too quickly the veil, the web-like structure of doubt comes back and like cataract spreads over the seemingly tireless organ. The best trick of your words, but the substance is absent. The meaning lost, important only to a select few.

Take these words, I do not want them. They have caused me false hope, they have fooled me too many times. Smirking they watch me struggle. One after the other, arriving at my fingertips only with laborious work. I do not deserve them, I cannot do justice to their beauty. My heart is hurt, it is incurably sad. Hoping to create substance has only made me turn away from my words. At times I have abandoned them. With each attempt, which each loosely knit kite, words hanging onto each other, they just become ridiculed by their creator. I do not deserve them, they are wasted on such questionable talent. I cry for them, for their successes and failures. I nurture them and fear for their sudden deaths. I bring each and every one of them to life and then proceed to meticulously end them. I have tried to be a better keeper, a less demanding master, a more clear headed creator. I come back to this: this is what I come back to.

If you had more time, maybe you could learn how to heal the heart. You could learn to soften the stone. But never do. Please never banish the sadness. This is what makes the words come to life. This pain sees the most beautiful combinations blossom. For a moment and that is all that life is. If the sadness was lost, the possibility for substance would be lost as well. In every second, in every letter put to a word, in every sentence brining an end to a thought, I want to feel the earth pull at my bones. Pull at them with force, such unashamed force. I want to see, not just feel the end. Know that there is reason and urgency in creation. That these words need to find the page now.

I will keep my sad heart, I will write for me, at times for you. I will eventually learn that we all have the same heart, but for now I revel in mine’s sadness. I will walk the streets and meet strangers, I will write about love lost and found. I will be moved by melody every single day. I will curse my words and bash my ambitions to write. They will never take me to places of contentment. I will learn to surrender, give up. I will let my heart be touched by wonders. I will write for the rain, I will write for the quiet snow falling. For a heart burdened with sadness rain is majestic, but snow is divine. This is how I will live: in treacherous doubt and exceeding worry, gripping fear and the faint hope that this ethereal sadness in my heart teaches and betters me. 

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.

some seven years later

rescued by the rain

The loneliness can only be filled with these luscious drops of silvery rain. The void, this vacuum of feelings, this barren land, the vast desert of emotions left quenched for water, unloved, run for as long as the eye can see. Nothing to lock the mischievous dust from gathering force with each easternly wind that takes its fancy to dance. There are no plants, there is no life, the thoughts cannot be fixed with just sunlight and air. Somehow they get carried away, inconsequential and aimless. But these bitter days, these nights that lurk, they bring hope, the distinct possibility of rain. That which once was empty is filled, given substance, recognized as worthy of praise. The weight of each raindrop, like heavy armoury, strikes bold, nails the flaunting hopes and desires to the ground. Settles the disputes, settles the flaky and unsure steps. Steers the vessels, floods the doubts.

Here I am, rescued by the rain. The skies I cannot see, I imagine a blue beyond this endless grey. But this grey magically reflects the grey inside. Hushed, almost silent, they all retreat when the rain appears. Haunted. Run like hunted prey from these uncomfortable rains. Run to hide the things they do not want washed away or washed clean. In full glory I reign over the streets. But I am no ruler and become mesmerized by the falling drops of tiny refuge. Each cobble succumbs and so must I, for there is no greater power than that of rain. Cleansing, I forget who made me reigning queen.

The sun set so quietly, the gentle tapping of the rain melodiously lingers on. Inspiration slowly drowns out any light, any sound, just the rain, the smell of freshness, the darkening skies, the cooling night, the mist that covers all floating ideas, fragments of stories waiting to be captured. I give in completely, surrender to the helplessly falling skies. It is of no burden, it is a liberator, a cloaked stranger who brings relief, brings light through the thickening dark. I have never known a sweeter burden than these endless autumn rains. Not through helplessness but choice I chain myself to its boundless grace. 

Frightening how much I enjoy these rainy days. Locked in my mind, wandering through the empty streets, drenched in the heavenly gift of water. Fruitful aspirations, moods which nothing else can replace or replicate. This is how I come to create, this is what quietens me. Every season brings its rain and through these dirty but delicious, these essential drops of water I am softly rescued.

The mighty owl

Through masterful disguise these hearts are protected. The wind howls, the night air is quickly cooling, there is no shelter warm enough to keep from the prying eyes. Flashing in the dense dark, glowing like a fire through a small glazed window. Inside seems cozy and delicious, outside is cruel, but deceptive. Nothing is a better situation than that of the owl. Free. Not captured, not displayed, but in natural magnificence.

You and I are different, we have seldom been able to understand each other. When I pull you pull harder, when I settle you look for ways to keep roaming. There are instances when our paths cross, for brief moments, for just seconds at a time. This has been going on for far too long. I used to be good at it, you used to relish the moments. By now I have lost the ability to savor your flash like recurrences. Once it was easy, even your glittering white could be perfectly made out in winter’s deep snow. Not for all the others, just for me. I could always see. You had the talent of singling me out, showing your beauty only to me. It was pure beauty, inside and out. I still feel at times the breeze of possibility, the unfading hope that things can go back to how they were. That the road we have travelled has no end, never had an end and we can resume the lonely, sometimes tiresome, ultimately fateful journey that we once began. Began so reluctantly, so freely.

I have no way of telling what you cling to, how your desires match the actions of your life. If they match at all. Mine are lost, at times decipherable, mostly just curl to any lingering line that makes these knots of cacophony. Then the music carries me to safety. Music that is melodious and beatless, quiet and sorrowful in its entirety. If stillness meant happiness then I could keep it, really hold it down, nurture it, give my all and more. If in stillness you had the capacity to return, then I could have you, I could really hold you. I move no more. I am rooted not chained. In sadness and through fateful decisions I have been motionless to your roaming. I have a home to love but not you.

I wait. I wait for night to descend, for the stars to appear before I take flight. I am surprised how well I see in the dark. Every little detail, every nook of every stone unturned, every shy brook. Every den kept warm by the rhythmic breathing of beasts of all sizes. Through the haze I see tops of trees, leaves about to fall, mountains glowing silver from the beams of the moon. Then the waters, oceans that sway swiftly. Shining with careless assurance, knowing that no force can change the course of nature. I see the boundless opportunity in each growing bud, in each newly formed pond, in every being coming to existence. I see this all, but I cannot see you. Not even a flash, not even the sense of you. Not even the breeze of your hurried ways, nothing to say that I should search longer.

But I hold on, not to you any more, but to the me I have come to know since you have been gone. There were no promises except the ones that were dutifully kept. I cannot place blame when neither of us is to blame. We stay connected. Through threads underground, unseen. Through wires that are hidden, running above the skies, below the earth. Forever we are connected by these vessels, by those instances when the world burned for you and me. I walk alone, may always stay alone. You walk in a two and will always stay a two. The mighty owl sleeps through the horrors of the day and comes to life in darkness. Spreads its magnificent wings to cover the mistakes made by the sunlight, made by the day.

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.