An ode to these notes

They are your words, they are your notes. Through time they have become a little mine. You toiled over the rhymes, you laboured with the harmonies. Your beading forehead saw the fruits of your amazing labour, at times late at night, at times early in the morning. The ones that burnt you made it to immortality, the days that would try to knock you down got inscribed in marble, plastic and ash. Your sweet heart proudly hanging by a thread, your fingers clutching the strings, getting ready to capture the melody.  

And then I imagine. Imagine a day when the notes take over. Those that you have created and carefully orchestrated in an orderly fashion for high to follow low, low to lift the high, will obediently stand frozen in time for eternity. Mighty muscles how they give way to frail beats that resonate hidden drums, resonate the silk veil of the soul. That is what your notes do, they move the unmovable, shake the one cast in concrete, they sooth the troublesome hearts. They sooth your troublesome soul. 

Now they heal me. Now they upset me. Now they send a silent tear down my cheek. These notes of yours have become my lovers past and present. They have become my sons and daughters, my future and the dark days of my painful past. You hurt, I hurt with you. You rumble with inexplicable anger and I stand guard on the sidelines. Your voice chokes, I pull you out with a tender applause. Your hands grip the moment, wrestling it to the ground, lifting it high like a balloon, on this pedestal is where you create and where I am drenched in your outpour of magical, mesmerising notes of genius.

 

Your notes change my life, touch so many. Through your notes, parts of yourself so willingly shared, I come to understand the pinnacles of my invisible empire. I am kept at bay a little longer, I am kept burning in the fire for a while longer. It is your notes that make me better, your notes that conjure the dormant to rise to life. This vessel, the only one I know, I will keep chained to you, for as long as your notes arrive in a timely manner, I can allow my words to set sail without much fear of them hurting or being hurt. Your notes need not take shelter, my words cannot reach their amazing heights. These notes that have once saved you, will I am sure proceed to in time save me. Here is how your music saved me. Here is how you saved me.

i.am.not.real

This visit will be short. Full of sweetness and hollow promises that glide on the rainbow coloured dough of unbaked bread. Scents will scare the thoughts that dance to lure. With bends that baffle the mind, with movements that rival the essence of this drummer’s innate rhythm. Easily drawn to the mischievous spirits of the western winds, unable to resist the magnificent glow of suspense. Through a narrow and harrowing hole the morning light creeps in. Lights the bedding covered by leaves killed in autumn. Touched by a hint of frost, blown by a swift current, burnt by the amazing mother of all warmness: the undeniable summer sun. The table stands on three legs, unsure of which side to rest on the creaky boards of the shifting room. Landing softly on earth rich in decaying broken hearts. Bare feet leave imprints, light dust of journeys to and fro thinly cover the surface of the damask tablecloth. The teapot is burning hot. This is where all burden must lie for safekeeping. From here the hike to the summit will begin. Choose feather-light steps to mount the path covered in snow. White snow that keeps the weight of any sin, that holds the heavy heart of monsters, that captures the windy airiness of the spirits haunting. In an attempt to keep quiet through the chase, bubbling laughter meets the adversaries, unexpected and unclear, softly locking the idle hands to the knobs of forgotten rooms. This has to be seen! The smell of freshly grown grass oozing through the keyhole, covering in an inexplicable cloud of freshness the entire length of the childish imagination. Dreams must be dreamt in all force. Hindrance, give way! Each breath blows tides away, pulls them close to the shore. From this vista the pieces of the puzzle can be clearly seen. The bits that fit the frame are glowing, those in the middle are invisible. The sharp edges represent the waters. They are fresh, from afar it is safe to tell. Fish travel in packs and teach mammals to live underwater. Grow your fins, grow them fast to avoid a fateful collision with the Hedges and Oxbows. Feet might be of no use, they may be disposed of soon. Beauty touched the skin, the roots of that shiny hair, now scales cover the feeble network of warm, red leverage. The dizzying heights of the tower beckons for more fishlike birds to seamlessly descend. Under the cover of darkness they hold the bricks in their yellow beaks and replace each instant with a lie. Construction began early, it is required to wear a hat that protects the brows that uncontrollably push the wrinkly skin on the forehead high above. The flapping fans the snowy dust off the tablecloth, clears the mirror that has been covered in golden robes since the times of Moses. May you close your eyes and see the beauty that lies beneath, always. May you realise that most things are not real. This is what you found on the hour, beneath the rusty sheets of Willamette Mountain. This is what you must take from the valleys that lie deep within Willamette Mountain.

I choose you, Eden

In your quest to fulfil every dream, realise every fantasy, there is an almost non existent fault. So faint, so light that for years it goes unnoticed. Unnoticed even to you. Like a cavity maliciously lurking, for years eating away the healthy, the bulging, sturdy constitution of the bleached white substance. Unseen in darkness, unchallenged by the light. Softly holding the flood of tears, seamlessly protecting the outline of a life shining from afar. The fragile thread made into a spider’s web held the unthinkable weight of disappointment like steel enforced concrete. It almost killed your soul, almost made your spirit disappear. The fault lies somewhere outside things you deem real. The crack on the surface escapes your attention. Unnoticed until you break. And you break with a shatter so thunderous it rings to the heavens, hallowing this earthly ground.  

You floated in smirks of content like a raft on the back of lazy ocean waves. At times weightless in the water, mesmerized by the world around you, swirling in the ritual dance with the salty parts of the unstoppable mass. You floated through the words like they had no weight. Unmoved but helplessly following the whimsical pattern, the timely ups and downs. At one moment high, the next so very low. Swish, swinging in the restless water, twirling with the raft the way the currents command. In a carefully constructed moment the tears appear. Unexpected, embalmed with the sun’s powerful rays, still in the windless instant, sadness is crowned princess of the heart. Now you are trapped, held captive by fear of regret stealing the role of prince. The blinding sky is cruel, but you stare into the sun, just to prove, to feel that being blistered is being alive.

Whisper words of comfort. Whisper in your lost ears the very words that have made you set sail. The words that crushed your wings just moments before. These words now guide you to shore, push your raft away from the endless sea, towards the visible shoreline. Carefully you stand, hold onto the pole of hope, let the tears fill the dents in your raft. Your eyes closed, you feel the wind on your cheeks. It is cold, unfriendly, lonely. Still, with unabashed pride you start to believe your lungs hold the secret of your coming home. Your heart navigates, your feet shuffle to find the right direction. In this composition, in this unforgettable end to a magical adventure, you become ready to conquer the fears and the unknown. You let go just barely. Just enough to arrive at something new.  

Maybe you never had the choice, but decided to choose anyway. Love may have been too much to bear, but you cloaked your frail body with the full weight of a love returned. Your lies might not catch up with you, but you will never cure your soul of the pain it caused. In your man-made haven numerous have tripped before you. Everyone you touch dies of thirst, instantly. Only one chose you, you destroyed all others. There is a distinctly visible fault in your ardency to fulfil each dream, to realise each fantasy. Rivers dry in your step, forests disappear in your path, innocent souls are crippled by your actions. If this is your Eden, then I choose to choke.

Until it gets better

Just as an unfaithful lover, a cheating partner, a homesick wanderer, a runaway with a change of heart I attempt to turn back to you. It has been days, months, maybe even years. The dark does not scare me, I charge forward unafraid of the unknown. The urgency replaces the haste and each second that holds me, keeps me from getting to you is hateful. I would break every bone running out of breath, sprinting in an effort to catch the door before it is forever shut. At times I have stayed away in silence, unseen or heard, for times that are immeasurable. Like a hermit I hid away, hummed melodies that never left my head, scribbled sentences that never showed themselves on the page. In sweet benevolence I was allowed to maintain anonymity, to never have to drag my sickly constitution into the sights of the blazing summer sun. Blisters might have surfaced. From the safety I chose to never venture, had the same words on repeat, the same beats set the daily pace. This was my life in Eden, but paradise as I know it is nothing to how you would imagine it. My soul thrives when sheltered but shrivels without the crippling daylight. I had no choice but to leave, run towards that which would pain me greatly. Pain me daily. 

Parading these talents terrifies me but I cannot do without. I wish I could keep them hidden forever, push the words under water, choke them before they could reveal how inaptly I place them one after the other. I am an impostor compared to the masters, barely visible amongst those who flaunt their mesmerizing feathers. But the words pull me from my damp cave haven. The words are not shy, they are not worried about how they have been used, what others will think, how they will be judged. The words are endlessly vain and selfish, they listen to no good advice. They allow only partial control and then I must back off, let them take what is rightly theirs. These words turn me inside out, make me swim in a sea of humiliation, plunge from the cliff of humility. Amidst all that is unfamiliar I try to survive, withstand the silence with a head held high, diminish the value of praise instantly and with resolute determination. Just as I reluctantly drag my most treasured bits out onto the blaring sun, I at once must weather the paralyzing silence or undue credit.  

This is my gift, an unbelievable gift that has been bestowed. This is not something that belongs to me, it is merely something that I have been entrusted with, in the hope that I may be a good keeper, a worthy carrier, a shell for thoughts that may be of use for others. With this sweet burden I travel and grow increasingly frustrated for there is not enough in me to make a difference. This talent is partial, it has been bestowed by mistake and the lion share rests somewhere far, with someone better than me. Forgive me, for even with this solemn realisation, I still cannot but continue to create. It will take both our times. It will make me feel worse and then better. I will be elated for moments and then thrown to the ground. I will shout for you in agony, I will call you in exuberant glee.  Some moments will see me get it right, some others will teach me the beauty in failure. I cannot but carry on and hope. Hope with all my might that these words, dubiously placed and ill formed, will still make you stop and read. That I will continue until it gets better, until it gets worth your while to read.

be brave

In these uncertain times it is easy to miss that which is crucial. Which has the ability to alter paths, which washes away barriers and borders. In these unpredictably cruel times it is by default that we cannot see that which at all other times is clearly visible. Wrapped in smoky haze we wander through our journeys dizzied from the maze. Glasses fogged up, minds boggled with confusion. We trace our steps back, stare straight ahead, hold our hopes high in front, throw our regrets far behind the road we have already travelled. The soul seldom settles, the cries of the lonely spirit echoes, pierces the heart. It is in this wondrous state that we understand how a warring, broken, elated spirit cannot ever be silenced. The words will ring loud, the thumping will break mountains in two. The notes will travel across the universe. The tears will fill reservoirs and set sail the sleepy little boats resting on unsuspecting shores. These messengers will harbour a voyage unparalleled. I am a star, waiting with a heavy anchor for a boat to reach the skies. I cannot tell where the horizon ends, I can only hear the nearing, the distinct ruffle of the sails latching onto the playful winds. I must ready myself, rust off the chains of my anchor. Pray in solitude that on the boat I await there is going to be a kind soul with a beautiful heart.

Instead mostly I fear, grow weary of the traps that lie ahead. Fear time and all of its malevolence. Fear the inevitable end and the prolonged suffering. Shudder at the thought of ridicule, grow anger into lifeless boulders that uncontrollably roll down steep hills of frustration. The wait is never kind, it is mostly solemn and flows in circles of inconsolable sadness. The world slowly catches fire, burns until there are souls who can feed it with their exceptional wisdom and grace. I see them leave one after the other. I see only darkness, anticipating the arrival of hope on wings that are neither visible, nor audible. I am a star, unable to move. There are times when I can alter fate with just one thought, one better deed than the one before. There are times when the cruelty in others does not scare me, when I can shout loud enough for the rest to hear. There are times when I lean so low that I can see my reflection in the water. Were I to touch it, all of the dust would cover the waves that rush to rub the shore. But I am unmoved, fitted just right, patient in my statuesque mission. I see a war around me, I see millions of lights that are lit then flicker, after much debate die to alight again. I cannot hold you back, cannot call on you to hurry faster. You take your sweet time and the world may disappear before you get to me. So here I am, fearful of time, doubtful if I will ever persevere, joyful in the hope that I may too be once noticed. I am a star with a heavy anchor, sometimes lost, sometimes adamant in being a part of an important constellation. I pull the tide closer, I guide the blinded souls home, I chase the sun and forge an alliance with the moon. Soon I will hear you, you will call out my name while I cry with tears of joy, whimper as I sail towards the horizon.

Two slices of whole grain bread

Almost breaking under the burden of the invisible mediocrity of the days turning from spring to summer. Breathing heavy with lungs that are thieves, shrinking further, becoming an outline that the gathering winds carelessly toss in and around. Tracing these footprints of lead, back to the same grind, almost bursting with silence, almost ready to allow each part to escape into a million pieces. In these younger days, with these perfect white clouds, under the kind kind summer sun, this is how I greeted you. 

You were gorgeous, almost unseen from the blistering sun. At some point we were strangers, then became friends. The heart that had been waking from the long wait found its way to the sun. Glowed with all its beauty in your path. We were off, took flight at the same time. The beat we heard, we felt in our lungs, we were drawn to the ecstasy and with arms thrown high in the air we shouted “thank you”. The union was forged somewhere between a sweet lullaby and a hymn for the soul.

We lay our bodies down on the soft grass, patches of freedom, unspoken empire of the lady love. Our heads were humming the notes that faintly sifted through the mesmerising trees. Lost in height, lost in the scents of the shaking earth around us, we filled our spirits with laughter, filled our hearts with song. Filled our cups with the sweet poison we wish for year after year. There in the hue of the setting sun, there with the ease of sipping life one moment at a time, is where I wish to go every time the clouds close up, cover with darkness a clear sky.

The days pass slowly then uncontrollably speed up, rush to see you again. Then I remind myself of the silence that I so reluctantly receive, so willingly give. Each adventure requires accomplices who know. Know how to skip and hop to the same beat. Know to hurry, know to kindly wait. Know to reach a hand that stands out amongst the thousand hands. Know how to sing out of tune. Know to fiercely hold onto the good, hold onto the heart that is for the keeping. This is where I wish to go. With you.

if she only knew

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

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

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

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

these parts

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

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

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

 

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

Fly up to the Moon and say hello

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

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

 

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

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

31 things

There are days when my heart is full. Full from just a word or a thought that you have taken time to share. Full from the love that we once had, the love that forever holds us together. Love that was never fireworks in a dark night, love that has been like roots of a sturdy tree, withstanding, dependable and kind. Friends of my deepest heart, enemies of my unclear sky, these days have been filled with you. These days I feel, these days I fear: make me.

I am hanging between my deepest fears, my dearest hopes.

The days pass uncontrollably and remind me how feeble each attempt is.
I hope there is yet a lot I still will achieve.
Knowing the limits is impossibly hard, learning them takes time, a painful process.
I am settled, unsettled, restless, content.
Change is driven by the desire to want more. I seldom want more, I always want much, much more.
I have never really been challenged to forgive.
I have never been challenged to really love.
Sadness makes me whole.
Kindness I will forever value the most in you.
I deplore those who are not humble.
If you did not know, I am weak.
Sorrow in a stranger’s voice soothes me.
If searching means finding absolutes and definites, then I will search always.
Belief takes almost all of me.
Confidence is gained and lost, with just one word you hand it, you steal it from me.
I have thought myself capable of more, then grow silent and content with all that I have achieved so far.
By fate I have been stranded in a life that is only almost.
For too long I have waited.
My faults are many, most severely I have only allowed my heart to be touched once.
I am unable to make my past, my past.
Being reminded that I am not enough lights the fire, kills me burning.
Seeing more makes me more.
Wherever, whenever, words make me smile.
I am the last man standing in the fight to prove not every heart is evil.
Dreams I cry after, I have painfully let go.
There are only a handful of you who know me, you save me.
For these lines I have but one to thank, but I never do.
I am fortunate beyond belief.
If you were to take it all away, I would try to thank you.
If you were to stay a little longer, I would tell you to find your reflection in the words that I have stolen or borrowed.

Green reminds me

Take a moment to roam with me. Let me guide you through these streets, this maze of thoughts, these alleys and avenues that start here and end over there. Somewhere over there. This will be an adventure, a grandiose and magnificent journey that you and I will share. The skies will be unexpected lilac, the clouds will part at the command of your fingers. Rivers will flow upstream, waterfalls will be covered in glitter-like vapour. You will never get drenched or lost in the mist. The canyons will shrink, lakes will grow, rains will gather and fall only around us. We will stay dry and use the power of thought to leap across deserts and oceans. I might show you how to travel without ever taking a step forward. There are thousands we need to visit, there are nooks and crannies we need to discover, there are hearts awaking and some leaving. We must depart, we must depart now.

This here is spring. You might not know, might not have ever seen or felt. Spring is balmy and warm. Spring is cool and unpredictable. Spring is vicious in her ferocity to drive winter out. Always. Spring used to be equal to the other seasons, they used to have equal time and measure, equal power and beauty. Each had time to prepare and plan, to move slowly then briskly, to administer change the most magnificent way. Spring is still amazing, indescribably unique. Spring has lost its precious time to winter, has lost its time to summer. Wedged between the two sturdiest adversaries, spring has diminished in power, dwarfed in significance. Spring seldom shines any more, a rare sight. This is how you should imagine the wistful, undeterred beauty: spring is elusive, a floating coat of scented petals. Spring is prolonged and pensive, a continual state of anticipation. Slow rising and dormant, moving to awaken one bit at a time. Spring is a masterful swordsman, duelling winter into submission, winning a fair fight, then losing an honest battle. Spring is every shoot, every tender startling. It is sunshine wrapped in the gentle adoration of humble trees breaking out in fragrant petals. Spring is the heart’s only time to plead for then receive forgiveness.  

Green reminds me of how we used to be. Every picture in my mind, every moment that faded, every bitterness escaped, every tarnished memory of how we gulped the sights of the waking nature in spoonfuls. Then it all slipped, the green into a million colours and you into the misty horizon; somewhere on a shaky raft, floating through the velvety, unkind ocean. I knew of the certainty that the green would return, that spring would pay a visit once again. In turn I knew I had lost you forever, that no changing warm current would every drift you back to my shores. The sadness of the coming seasons, the scorching heat of summer, the instant freeze of autumn, the slow rising giant that winter is took my pain, slowly rounded the sharp edges and made my heart content with the wait. The beauty that would beseech me to keep waiting, to keep wanting, to keep searching and yearning, longing for the green. Without hurting now, I confess that green still reminds me of how we used to be.  

You must see now that someone, somewhere, cheated you out of spring. This spring has been kidnapped by a winter that refused to leave, by a summer that could no longer muster the patience to enter when it was supposed to, at the given word, at the exact time. Still you must journey, cut through the sudden and blinding lights of the sun. Stay clear of the breeze it throws our way, stay clear of the unknown marshes, the forests that are littered with the slumbering ghosts of winter. You must romance spring even if it is only here for mere hours. Show it you care, show how you have been preparing for the unthinkable waltz with the river, the trees, the shrubs, the tulips that are rapidly shooting out from the nothing that the freezing winter has turned them into. Break free from the cage, capture the essence and open your heart to the warmth. Fill the streets with your light steps, make way for the breeze that carries the perfumed scents, the messages of hope. This is your spring, the treasure of your soul, the journey that you must never forget. This is when you awake, when you must plead for then receive forgiveness. 

Fallen to the ground

Sometimes my heart bleeds from an open wound. The ghastly sight, this bundle of muscle unable to heal itself. Monstrous and amazing, most are in awe, unbelieving. Rarely does it show, seldom do I notice, but in instances when the unforgiving moon shines its silver light onto my barren chest, I see the scars, the scabs, the painful reminders of fights I never chose to fight. They were not my fights, they were not my fights. My heart was young. When you broke it, when you slashed it open, when you burned it, my heart was too young to heal properly. Now I carry these reminders, awful memories, painful lessons that I have learnt all too young. Mostly I cover it, mostly it is at peace now, mostly just a scarred heart on the outside, intact on the inside.

The days were precious, we were sheltered. We chased bubbles blown from the mighty well of careless Saturday afternoons. We stood high when we heard the call, took heed and swung from branches low enough. Those birds stood waiting, in cold, in rain, in the burning sun and we watched. Followed as they flew from fence to tree to roof. Ran like there was no tomorrow, fell onto the velvet grass of forgiveness, wrapped in the gentle softness of the growing spring lawn. Our faces glowed from the white snow, from the golden sun, from the beading sweat of excitement. Those adventures would never repeat, we hardly remember. The pebbles that scarped your knee, the stool that was stolen from under you, the flowers that bloomed perfect and were picked to kill the fruits growing. Our little hearts beat better with each passing day, beat stronger, grew to once withstand the heavy strike that would befall. All too soon it would befall.

The course cannot be changed or altered. The very dubious path that we took together was not one that could have been changed. What fate had handed, we had to follow. Blindfolded we embarked, never suspecting in the careless summer sun that we were headed for the deadening darkness. That we were headed to a sudden plunge, an inexplicable blow which would wound all our hearts. It seemed warm and never ending. The adventures did not have a reason to cease. New ones came every moment, there was a whole world to discover. We ran faster, we rushed through each day quicker, we listened when instructed. We obeyed words we did not understand, we never questioned the sublime authority. We never questioned you. We should have. We should have suspected that in all our obedience you would turn against us. From behind, from the dark alleys that we could not see you would come and sit us down. You would come and crush our world, force us to survive in a war of words, leave us alone in a storm stirring up houses. Nothing stayed intact; your whimsy destroyed everything we had known. Destroyed two hearts that knew not how to weather your storm.

I have time on my side. We all do. I taught myself to forgive, to embrace my wounded heart. To let it bleed when the tears are not deep enough. I taught myself to accept and reject. Some parts have been chipped, some parts cracked under the pressure. You stole parts that were never for the taking. I gave away bits that grew back. I live in an ocean of sadness and the pain in a stranger’s voice soothes me. Just like your tears hushed your bulging anger, just like the clarity of your path calmed your words. I am comforted by silence, mostly become whole in sadness. I no longer want to escape but cannot find words to thank you. My heart was too young, you did not take enough care of it. My heart was young but you stabbed it anyway, cried to see it bleed, covered it softy so it would heal in the balsamic autumn sun. It never really did.  

The path we must take cannot be changed. The obstacles that are set must be met, must be overcome. Your choices are yours, I have learnt to make my own. The hearts you were responsible for have turned out to be imperfect, turned out to be victims of your rampage. We learnt to float, to take all our pain and drift towards a kinder horizon. Had you known different, better, had you been able to see clearer and to act wiser, you would have taken better care of the hearts entrusted in your care. We have survived, but just barely. Our hearts sometimes still bleed from an open wound. In an instance everything had changed. In an instance our worlds had changed. In just an instant we fell to the ground. 

 

Oh father can’t you see the pieces that have fallen on the ground.

You and mom decided nothing could be saved inside this house.

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.