Sing All The Songs

In my heart there is constant disdain. At times too much, at times too hurtful. Feeble men and feeble doings pass, I care not even to send a flinch their way. I never flinch at your words or at your outside, the deceiving words or the mockable expressions. All these leave me untouched, unmoved, uninspired. Spiteful mannerism, hateful words that bubble out of your mouth and yet you are celebrated. You are paraded in your plastic chair that you believe is a throne made out of gold. I am not fooled. To me you are just weak, exactly what you were before you drenched your crippled soul in the murky pool of power. If this is how you succeed, then I am grateful to never rise above the limits of my abilities, never dig a mine to expose my talents, never clad my fragile soul with words that are untrue, unfaithful.

The anger brings a realization anew: the tide may cover, the moon may expose. Covered I wish to remain, fearful to be exposed. I let you in but you only catch a glimpse then you must leave, hurry along and never talk of what you have seen.  In all your dishonesty, in the ways of the world which you have so masterfully adopted, there is no place for a truthful voice. You have lost yourself, but I never want to lose the parts of me which are most valuable. These parts are the air to my lungs, they pump the luscious blood of my spirit. In this world humility is dying a painful, coarse, despicably torturous death. With each word, with each deed you administer yet another blow, yet another stab to the already slowed heart of the world. Precious few heal, the vast majority destroy. The evil laughter accompanies and the devil sits in your tone of voice, lurks each time you speak. One word of yours kills two of mine. That is how we must live, I will sacrifice, spit at the thought, shrivel eventually in the poisonous pool of your lies.

It is night. You retreat; you never liked the dark for it brought little satisfaction. It is night and I revel in these short times, these ever shortening times that I have in a world where truth rules. Night is when truth rules, when humility gets a moment’s relief from the constant torment. Night is when men and women all over the world sit in inspiration, create the stuff of dreams. They dream colour. They dream oceans and forests with endless music. They dream words that send unstoppable waves to wipe out hypocrisy. They dream figures that appear invisible in the daylight. They are creators, healers, bringers of joy. They are tellers of the truth. They burn even the thought of your existence with one glimpse. You cannot stand the dark and now it is night. I forget the destroyers and think of only the healers. I am in awe only when things born in the night appear. They litter my path and give me hope, courage to march on despite the ugly surrounding my every move. You creators behold endless beauty, undying humility. You creators hold the pieces together, plant seeds of life in desolate lands that have turned to deserts. You creators save and make rivers once run dry, flow with boundless fresh waters.  

I hear the thumping, I am me again. Do not try to break me, I bend for no one except the ones I love. I would rather slowly vanish in the dark than to live your life of lies in the light. And I do slowly vanish, with each day grow fainter, less glossy. The night bathes me, nurtures the weary parts, balms the doubts and soothes the questions that pull me closer to the light. But the night is short and your webbing powers spread uncontrollably. I see my fateful end. Until then I turn to creators for inspiration, for hope, for courage to take the fight that I feel I must take. In awe every moment I see the creations. The notes nail my soul to the ground. The words tie my heart to the places I have never known. The colours trap my head in circumstances that teach me to be content.

This is what you do to me. This is what your ways have done to me. This is why I am only awed by those who create. This is why I demand to hear all the songs, why at all times you must sing all your songs. They might just help rid these suspecting spirits of the ways of the untruthful man.