Life’s realities exposed, no more mystery necessary
Grooving through green grass over hills and feeling blades brush through my toes, and rolling with grace and laughing all the way to the trough before treading back up again, I realized that the fun will never last. But the adventure moves ever on. The seafarer without a country, the death without a culprit, the class without a teacher.
Love is something I was never taught because I had to teach it to myself. And my achievement has been less than admirable. Holding instincts in high esteem, worrying about being the best host and my physical appearance, I often missed the lesson. After all, under the enchantments of prettiness, it’s easy to be caught by the entrapments of pettiness. People will take what they can and put their personal and financial agendas first, but the cleansing powers of “sunlight” reveal to us what’s important eventually. My own guilt awaits the powers that impugn with cringing speculation.
Like a lost loved one frowning her reaction to my selfish glare and my comments of confusion and how I have to figure things out, realization wasn’t a surprise but, rather, an inoculation of what hurts most — the truth. Shaking, facial ticks, tears and warm, salty breath. A ten-second countdown to emotive take-off. Guitar solo thrashing then departure from care and concern. It’s easier to build a wall and ignore what you are sad about than it is to confront head on the perpetrating agent, hefting spiritual and emotional weight at the unseen. Meeting loss with indifference, my conniving reflection. Assured of loneliness.
Capitulation and creation catch up with many of us, and they linger in a house somewhere, with a yard and a puppy, down the street from a park and smelling on Sundays of grill smoke in June and chimney smoke in December, socializing and convincing those who witness them. Closing my eyes again, I can see them coming soon, or maybe later, or maybe I can just remember them from my own ordeal and past, before and after being awarded the gifted curse (or cursed gift) of living. But from where, there is no key.
Yet frigid, your steely grip and clenched bones reddening, you see it all come down in a haze of nuclear debris and blotted sky. Then there’s me…with my vision constantly obscured by the spree of unattained freedom, whether it actually exists or not. We share these traits and we wallow in the shames and fears that our goals are left untethered but still untouched, while there must be a way to push off the shield, absorb the pain and punishment, reach the next level through self-illuminating trial. The answer is amorphous. Our vanity will decide for us.
Wrapped in cemetery blues, frazzled by grief and creativity-loss, we trudge through what remains of our fractured ideals, missing nothing more than dream and color. Spinning, top-like and naïve, but only in deliberation, for by this time we cannot afford to be anything but skeptical, cynical, realistic, doubting, mourning and dying inside. The natural evolution of humans, even those with powerful energies, spanning geographic climes and long years of mental endurance, is that of a bell curve.
Oranges and pales, slipping from the darkness of darker black and red and reddish. The iron drops, the skin droops, the tales lengthen, while the creation of tales steadies to a slow trickling trickle. Then we see it coming, we feel it approach like wind. I can smell it sometimes even now, already cresting the hormonal hyperactivity of youth, looking behind the drifting wake of my years and the horizon before me, smiling, too, another in a line of uncertain encounters, life and unpredictability. Fate is what we make it, or it isn’t. That’s just the point and we take the cue from nature and our own feelings and interrelationships with each other, the wisdom of seeing and acting and always hoping to spite inevitability, hoping to hold someone warm throughout, keeping the faith that leniency and love and safety await. Until only tears remain and longing and nothing.
Love is something I was never taught because I had to teach it to myself. And my achievement has been less than admirable. Holding instincts in high esteem, worrying about being the best host and my physical appearance, I often missed the lesson. After all, under the enchantments of prettiness, it’s easy to be caught by the entrapments of pettiness. People will take what they can and put their personal and financial agendas first, but the cleansing powers of “sunlight” reveal to us what’s important eventually. My own guilt awaits the powers that impugn with cringing speculation.
Like a lost loved one frowning her reaction to my selfish glare and my comments of confusion and how I have to figure things out, realization wasn’t a surprise but, rather, an inoculation of what hurts most — the truth. Shaking, facial ticks, tears and warm, salty breath. A ten-second countdown to emotive take-off. Guitar solo thrashing then departure from care and concern. It’s easier to build a wall and ignore what you are sad about than it is to confront head on the perpetrating agent, hefting spiritual and emotional weight at the unseen. Meeting loss with indifference, my conniving reflection. Assured of loneliness.
Capitulation and creation catch up with many of us, and they linger in a house somewhere, with a yard and a puppy, down the street from a park and smelling on Sundays of grill smoke in June and chimney smoke in December, socializing and convincing those who witness them. Closing my eyes again, I can see them coming soon, or maybe later, or maybe I can just remember them from my own ordeal and past, before and after being awarded the gifted curse (or cursed gift) of living. But from where, there is no key.
Yet frigid, your steely grip and clenched bones reddening, you see it all come down in a haze of nuclear debris and blotted sky. Then there’s me…with my vision constantly obscured by the spree of unattained freedom, whether it actually exists or not. We share these traits and we wallow in the shames and fears that our goals are left untethered but still untouched, while there must be a way to push off the shield, absorb the pain and punishment, reach the next level through self-illuminating trial. The answer is amorphous. Our vanity will decide for us.
Wrapped in cemetery blues, frazzled by grief and creativity-loss, we trudge through what remains of our fractured ideals, missing nothing more than dream and color. Spinning, top-like and naïve, but only in deliberation, for by this time we cannot afford to be anything but skeptical, cynical, realistic, doubting, mourning and dying inside. The natural evolution of humans, even those with powerful energies, spanning geographic climes and long years of mental endurance, is that of a bell curve.
Oranges and pales, slipping from the darkness of darker black and red and reddish. The iron drops, the skin droops, the tales lengthen, while the creation of tales steadies to a slow trickling trickle. Then we see it coming, we feel it approach like wind. I can smell it sometimes even now, already cresting the hormonal hyperactivity of youth, looking behind the drifting wake of my years and the horizon before me, smiling, too, another in a line of uncertain encounters, life and unpredictability. Fate is what we make it, or it isn’t. That’s just the point and we take the cue from nature and our own feelings and interrelationships with each other, the wisdom of seeing and acting and always hoping to spite inevitability, hoping to hold someone warm throughout, keeping the faith that leniency and love and safety await. Until only tears remain and longing and nothing.
