Sunday, October 04, 2009

October 6 2008

Life seems a funny thing with his hands tied behind his back.
Life seems a funny thing when the world sits back and laughs
At life crying out in pain, fighting to stand up
To save their lives from everything that kept them captives of

Life seems a funny thing when I look into his eyes.
What can this trembling mean, as he offers me to die
For all the blank, unblinking eyes that seek to live but die
I’ll find him in the morning light he promised me tonight.

Life seems a funny thing we spit into his face.
We crown his head in mockery and curse him in our hate.
Life, his blood flows from his hands, Life, his blood flows free.
Life looks down on my pale face and says, “Now you are free.”

Life, fill me up at last, oh Life conquer me
Life, brand me with your love and bring me to my knees
Life, place your hand on me, let your blood make me clean
Life catch me up in You, for rest eternally

Life seems a funny thing when I fear my dreams won’t last
And all the lies I held onto come crashing down at last.
Now I see my desperate plight, I plead grace and light
Forgetting death, embrace the LIFE

Marche 30 2009

There will be sorrow
My spirit groans to know
To know
Fire from heaven
Burn us
Drink our blood
It is poisoned
I am faced with the darkness
Darkness is terror
Terror black
Like the heart in me
Like ink that bleeds
Bleeds from my veins

Father, can you hear me?
I am afraid
The power of the night
Invades my heart
How much more
Your radiance explodes
In righteous rage
In power like the hot sun
In power like the crashing waves
In power like the piercing stars
In power like the mountain fixed
How much more
Does your love burn through
Break the chains of this
Deceiving, complacent, proud,
Judgmental, dying, forgetful,
Philandering, callous, untrue

Give me your blood to drink
Am I a parasite?
Then let me be a parasite to You
Let me be the dog under your table
Only let me eat and drink of You
If I do not, I will die
You brought me to your table
My hands
Are bound in wounds
My feet
Cannot stand
My throat is parched
My eyes are blind
The air paralyzes my lungs
But still you carry me
You held me close to your chest
And I knew
I knew what it was
To face the ugly
To face the unclean
To face the suffering
To face the weakness
And insufficiency
That I am.

January 24 2009

It was a quiet morning, nothing out of the ordinary. The sun embraced the grass and trees around the mansion warmly. There was a dreamy mist in the air, cloaking the house and its three chimneys mysteriously. Birds sang their songs in rhythm with the slight breeze that had picked up from the sea.
Juliet stood silently on the balcony overlooking the water. She could feel the cold stone of the railing pressed against her skin through her thin dress. It was getting colder. The summer air was hurriedly vanishing. This cold, proud wind had come to take its place. The tree leaves seemed stiff with the chill as they were tossed dizzily to and fro, throwing their shadows upon the soft, green lawn. There was darkness on Juliet’s face as well. It was darker than the timid, flitting grass. Her dark eyes seemed to have sunken severely into her hardened brow. They burned with a silent, menacing force. It was not a warm and yielding passion in her face that morning; it was a determined and calculating one; the kind of passion that defeats nations, the kind of passion that kindles revolutions; the kind of passion that is discontentment, restlessness, and turmoil. She was not a woman today. She was a wounded creature. Now and then her brooding face would suddenly become flushed with overpowering emotion and her eyes would flash as they looked out to sea but her lips remained calm. She did not tremble. Her heart beat slow and firm. There was no fear about her, only a kind of impulsive wildness.
The blue sea raged. Its blue body curved and writhed against the strong wind, sweeping over it firmly. Arcs of blue and grey rose and fell amidst the white spray, finally meeting the sharp rocks of the shore with a deafening roar. The gulls shuddered in their crags. Only a few dared venture over the sea. They cried out as they shivered. In fact there was quite a storm brewing. The wind had picked up as if in reaction to the fury in the lady’s eyes.
Suddenly there was a step behind her. She did not hear it. She did not feel his large hand lightly touch her shoulder. She was caught up in her thoughts, in her own passion, in her own wilderness of pain and suffering. She was not waiting for him. Her heart had stopped listening for it; for his step on the stair, for his low voice, for his horse on the gravel below. She no longer heard him. No not at all. He had vanished from her mind. She had fought that battle. She had won. He was less than a dream, a ghost, a lost soul, a fleeting moment in time.
“The sea is angry today.” His voice was low and soft against the screaming wind. “She is drowning in her dark thoughts of revenge. She would do well to remember that she is still immortal. But some hero might rescue her yet. She is fortunate she is so beautiful.” She whirled around and let out a small cry. He stepped towards her resolutely. “She fools an ignorant man so well. The hero often wonders if he should rescue her. She might try to pull him down with her. She might want to drown him too.”
The terrible expression of both figures would have melted any ordinary soul in a moment. His eyes were cruel and pitiless, yet dreadfully calm. Her face had filled with a fiery anguish. She seemed to be breathing flames, like a dragon at the last moment of the battle, before the knight plunges his lance into her heart. For a moment it seemed they would rush at each other’s throats and kill each other. The space between them seemed to burn with a terrible energy, as if the two hearts would finally meet and explode in fire and smoke. The wind moaned and swept her hair up about her face.
For a moment he saw her again as she had been that day in the sun, so long ago. For a moment he felt his heart crushed against his ribs. He had not felt that...or anything for a long time. It was strange to remember that burning thing within him. He remembered his fear. He remembered his pain. He remembered his desire. To see her so beautiful and so alone in her rage was almost more than he could bear. And then the moment passed and suddenly his heart shuddered at such a thought. Never again would he relent to her power. She was the love he could never, should never have. She was the passionate frenzy that only destroyed a man. She was the unnatural infatuation, the seductress, the devouring desire. Behind that beauty was a craving that no human should have for another. She was like a predator seeking to consume its prey. Do not believe her lying eyes, he repeated to his burning heart.
"I've come to negotiate."
She laughed. Suddenly she turned towards the sea and lifted her frail body up onto the railing. She faced him, perched like a little bird, swinging her legs playfully with the breeze. For one moment her eyes softened and he felt a surge of warmth illuminate his doubting heart. Then, she threw her head back. Her white arms were outspread for an instant against the wind as if she would fly. She smiled calmly. There was more peace on her face than he had ever seen, even in sleep. She blew him a kiss and then…silently, deftly she vanished over the edge.

Mr. James Lark was considered a good man, a man of honorable character, of good taste, of respectable family. Mr. James Lark was a gracious host, a ferocious shooter, and a benevolent master. He was rich, on the young side, and had become rather famous of late in the county he had newly made his residence in. He had made quite a name for himself in London with his clever schemes of business and his devilish accuracy at predicting the economy. And now he had come to ---shire and decidedly bought the entire county. He was on all accounts an honest, intelligent, responsible man without a care in the world as far as the press was concerned. The people of his county too had no idea of his being anything but extravagantly content and admirably hardworking. For indeed he was the owner of a quarter of London and all the land they lived on and no one had heard of his being anything but generous and merciful, though a demanding and firm landlord too when the necessity arose. In short, James Lark had become the portrait of success, the pinnacle of good breeding, and the indubitable standard of just principles and etiquette.
The vast inhabitants of the county, and indeed much of London therefore, would be astonished, anxious, staggered, indeed put out of all sorts if they were to know what Mr. James Lark had chosen to occupy himself with one bright and early morning in May, only two months after his arrival in the county. The whole estate was in an uproar. Half the servants had run to hide in the pantry and the other half were employed in “dealing” with this utterly impossible and unforeseen state of affairs. Mr. James Lark was cooking himself breakfast. There was a crowd of maids and butlers attempting to dissuade Mr. Lark from this terrible endeavor. They pleaded and prodded, flattered and questioned but to no avail. Indeed Mr. Lark was not only cooking himself breakfast, but it was discovered he had chopped the wood for the fire, kindled the stove and set himself a table in the kitchen, of all places, where none but the stable boys and the maids ate. The cook herself was the most exceedingly flustered and vexed of all. She was a mixture of tears and terror. She did not know whether to scold or plead with the headstrong, rebellious ideas that her young master, one of the most powerful men in England, had somehow got into his head. Not only was it unheard of and unrefined for a man of his status to even set foot in his own kitchen, it was intolerably volatile and out of place. Not that he hadn’t a right to anything he had done but he simply shouldn’t. The boundary her dear master had crossed seemed at best to be a positively ferocious practical joke upon the whole system of society.
James Lark stood calmly at the warm stove in his kitchen, frying two beautifully white and yellow eggs. He sprinkled them with some garlic and mushrooms. There was a pot of tea boiling and two slices of toast in the oven. He had set his table and poured a cold glass of orange juice. He had found the butter and jams in the pantry and abandoned his eggs for a moment to stir the steaming pot of porridge he had just begun. He whistled to himself softly as he worked. His large hands were deft and precise. It was as if he had been cooking breakfast his whole life.
The first to discover him was one of the stable boys, Tommy. He had spent the night amongst the hay in the stables because one of the horses was very pregnant and expected to go into labor any day. He had been chosen to keep watch during the night. Of course the horse hadn’t given birth and instead had done a great deal of neighing and prancing all night, providing many a false alarm. Tommy’s shift was over at six and he had stumbled into the kitchen in a bewildered haze in hopes of a warm breakfast from the cook. She had not yet risen however and instead Tommy was fairly run over by his master who was racing around the kitchen like a madman before he realized who it was. Once the discovery was made, however, the bewildered Tommy did not quite comprehend the gravity of the situation. He starred at his master for a good five minutes like a man who had seen a ghost and then stumbled down the hall towards the servant’s quarters with the vague idea of alerting someone. When he reached them, however, he promptly fell fast asleep upon the first bed he passed.
Thus Mr. James Lark was not found out until a solid quarter of an hour later when a maid entered the kitchen to start up the oven and begin her usual chores. She was a quick and sensible girl and immediately notified the cook and the head butler of her discovery. They were far across the large mansion in the servant sitting room, having their own early breakfast and so the entire household awakened to the cook’s horrified cries and the butler’s loud assurances that all would be righted immediately as they made their way across the house to the kitchen.
Once they arrived, however, there was nothing to be done. Mr. Lark seemed merely amused at the tumult he had caused and firmly answered the tearful cook and the accusing butler that he was perfectly happy and in fact inclined to cook his own breakfast this fine morning and certainly the devil himself could not persuade him otherwise.
“But why?” cried the cook painfully. “What could have put this strange idea into your head? My goodness! Flour all over the place! Oh Mr. Lark and whatever will I tell all the servants? They love and respect you so but to see you in this humbling state! Oh sir, its as if you were dressed in rags and wallowing with the pigs and you such a fine and educated gentleman without a care in the world. Oh good sir, this is nonsense and wildness I tell you. Nothing good will come of it!” Mr. Lark began to show signs of vexation, as Mrs. Tuttle’s voice grew louder. She seemed to have no intention of stopping and the crowd of servants around him was rather bothersome.
He suddenly turned on her with a gentle look in his eye and exclaimed mysteriously, “I have found my way.” He smiled quietly to himself and turned back to his eggs, which were by now very well poached. He speedily dumped them onto a plate, grabbed his toast and a cup of tea and dashed out of the room. At this point the good cook was trembling with anguish and promptly burst into tears. She was a loyal, undemanding sort of woman who appreciated the place in life she had been given and expected others to do the same. Though her reasons were vague she felt sure that what was going on was simply not right and she now collapsed in disarray at the prospect of failure to right the situation.
“Never fear my dear Mrs. Tuttle,” the head butler seemed have finally found his voice. It was a dry one and not the kind that is prone to be soothing. “Mr. Lark will come to his senses. He is perhaps temporarily delusional but a doctor and a prescription or two can fix anything. Never fear Mrs. Tuttle!” He repeated. “We shall get to the bottom of this.” With this last remark the butler fixed a severe eye upon the door from which Mr. Lark had escaped. Mrs. Tuttle’s heart suddenly filled with fear as she gazed up at this man. The implication of his words was unclear but his tone frightened her enough.
“Alright, alright Mr. Bronson. That is quite enough. You talk as if he were a convict.” She clucked. Suddenly regaining her senses with the exit of Mr. Lark she turned on the servants menacingly. “It is so late in the morning! My goodness! Look at the place! It is in utter confusion! What are you all staring at? Get to work! This isn’t a circus you lazy mongrels!” The bodies around her suddenly began to move as if the devil was on their tails. The oven flared, pots and pans appeared, and the room was swept and tidied of the morning’s events with remarkable dexterity and speed. Mr. Bronson disappeared and Mrs. Tuttle began her usual duties, chastising and ordering the servants about with a flourish of new energy and poise.


Juliet is the “lady liberty” that arises from the bosom of wild revolutions like France. At the same time, she is often the symbol of the human heart and the good passions that arise from a knowledge and faith in the Good. James is America. He is the regular, unsuspecting man seeking liberty and interest and life. He used to be a stable boy in the courts of a wealthy landholder. Now, through a series of events, both lucky and hardworking, he has reached riches and freedom and yet something is missing. He deeply craves adventure and excitement. He is intelligent, rich, and bored. The ultimate answer to his dissatisfaction seems to be Juliet. However, his unrest at first begins to rear its head in his unconventional and at first mildly rebellious acts against society, class, and expectations of him. His unrest is nurtured instead of quieted, however, by his adventurous endeavors and his quest for freedom, peace, and adventure. Eventually, it culminates in his murder of Father Brown, his trial, conviction, and imprisonment. Because of his high status in society he is quietly let off a great deal of his sentence by the king. His murderous act is attributed to a crazed and impassioned mind after the alleged impurity of his sister Una. Una is the “guardian angel” of the story. Though her reputation is destroyed, she in fact remained faithful to the right cause and continues to be peaceful and kind of heart, even after her accusation. Father Brown is religion. Una is true faith. She is, perhaps, similar to Kierkegaard’s knight of faith. Father Brown is the corruption of religion and the example of the way people use it ruthlessly to their own advantage.
James will finally return from prison only to witness Juliet’s suicide and the squandering of his possessions by his untrustworthy clerk. In Una, however, he still finds hope. He moves to a small town with her and they each open simple businesses with the little money they have left. James finds peace, in the end, not in the loss of his possessions, however, or even the loss of the passionate Juliet. He finds peace in the truth of his sister and the hope of a life surrounded with the “love that surpasses understanding”. The love of God disguised? Plato? Sea of beauty? In the end I want to leave people with a desire for more beauty, more love, and more truth in their lives. They must see the hopelessness and corruption in this world, but at the same time catch glimpses of a terribly beautiful truth. They must catch glimpses of a love that can satisfy their souls and righteousness and justice that can defeat the evil of this world.

December 30 2008

“Do you know how it feels to be alone?” She asked. “Do you know how it feels to be utterly lost? To feel your soul diminishing before your very eyes. Why is it vanishing? Because there is no one who thinks, who loves, who lives anymore. You are alone. The bodies around you move but they give no meaning. The faces bear expressions, expressions without passions behind them. You live among carcasses of humanity. You do not ask for minds that think the same things you do. You do not ask for souls that believe the same things you do. You do not ask for hearts that love the same things you do except this one thing, that they love humanity; that they embrace who they are, loving knowledge and wisdom and the life of the mind. So many, it seems, have lost the truth of their existence, that is, that we are those who seek in this universe. We, humanity, are those who study, employ, invent, create, discover, and explore. It is our minds that elevate us, our minds that define us. Who are you, oh human soul, if not the traveler of ideas, the voyager of new worlds, the inquisitive and impassioned scholar?”

March 11 2009

Father can you hear me? The world is a tireless voice, speaking of your glory. Oh how the trees dance and sing in the blue twilights of summer. Oh how the sun loves us with golden warmth. Oh how the waters of the earth shimmer and glide and roar, invading the sounds of man’s machinery. They grind the ocean floor and caress the rocks and soil, kissing our faces with salty winds and our throats with life. Oh how I tremble at the mere thought of every man You have breathed into. How great a creature he is. Able to live, sustain, create, destroy, love, teach, employ, work, fight, invent, explore, sing, dance, cry, sleep, and learn. Oh how I tremble that you breathe in me and through me. Your breath is fire. Your breath is a sword. Your breath cracks my bones. They are dust. Your breath will burst my heart. I am but blood. Your breath rages within my mind, blowing me through strange alley ways of wonder, the wisdom of the heavenly realm. You teach me of the soul. You teach me what you think, what you feel, what you want. You are free and unreserved. You wear your heart on your sleeve. Oh how he loves us…through every movement of life and death, through every growing thing and all that fills the earth. Oh Father, I cannot help but weep at the glorious faces. I cannot help but weep at the sight of a child with his mother. I cannot help but weep at the thought of a seed growing into a tall and strong tree. I cannot help but weep as the crickets sing and the seagulls race across the sky. I can’t take it in. Father can you hear me? I worship you in my tears. Water, flow from me. Water the ground of this dry heart.


Her hands trembled. She held them close to her sides. The hall yawned before her. The grey and yellow carpet slithered towards the chestnut panels at the end. She looked down at her bare feet and watched them as they crept along the lines. Her heart beat fast. An iron fist was clamped about her head…and her throat. Her breath came short. She stumbled on towards the door. She looked at it as it came into view. It was just a door after all. Such an ordinary thing and yet behind it was something dark and terrible that had climbed into her very depths. She did not know what would happen were she to put lay her white hand against the wood. She closed her eyes and swallowed, then looked at her hand again, rising to the door. She forced it forward, against, it seemed, some gravitational pull, calling it back to her side. She felt her knuckles scratch against the wood that was once a tree. How she wished it was a tree at that moment…something to soothe the burning inside. One, two…knocks. She quickly took her hand away.
There were sounds of movement beyond this door that was once a tree. It was once a tree. Yes, it was once a green and swaying tree. The door opened. She felt the air from the window beyond, at the end of the room. And there it was, a simple form and yet so lovely. She looked over the curves, the color, the light as it fell across the lines. So much more than a form. So much more than a face. So much more than a man. “No. No.” His voice rang in her ears. She stuttered through the tears she found were falling fast.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please John. The iPod, I need it back. My dad said I could come.” He had hardly looked at her. It was only that she had frozen the moment that had held his face, his eyes in hers. He turned quickly and disappeared into the room. She listened to his footsteps, loving them, and dreading them. They marked the separation once again of the wooden door that was once a tree. She sobbed and could not see. He returned and his face was one of anguish. He did not look at her. He put it into her hand, turned, and shut the door.
There she stood, rooted to the hard grey and yellow carpet. She felt its coarseness beneath her feet. And now all she wished was to stand in that place in the hall, forever in front of his door. He could live there. She could live here and only a door that was once a tree in between. It could be heaven. It could be beautiful. She turned. She looked down at her bare feet and watched them as they crept along the lines. Her heart beat fast. An iron fist was clamped about her head…and her throat. She choked down her tears. A terrible weight in her stomach took their place. And her head, always her head was held fast in that grip. She thought she felt her skull crushing against her brain. It’s just because you didn’t sleep well last night she told herself.
She thought of the endless day ahead of her filled with nothing but the loneliness. There would be no expression, no word belonging to herself. It would all be imitations of what she knew the others wanted, needed to see. It was a day where every moment must be an act. Even the glances she knew she’d drink in of him could not be true. She must place blinds before her windows…She must cover her sorrowing mouth…She must stop her trembling hands…She must tear herself from the urge to let go…to fall…to sleep…to rest…to ease the pain…to cry. O torment! Do you never grow weary? Do you never sleep? Even for the sake of lovers?
She found her room somehow. She gathered her things into her bags. She could never remember those moments afterwards. The only ones that shone clear were the ones in the sun, when she could catch glimpses of his face, trying to understand the disguise he had embraced, wondering how he could do it so well. She photographed his face and studied the lines in her mind. To others she seemed to be staring into nothing. No one could know she was looking at him. Where did the mask end and the truth begin? she asked as she lingered on his eyes, his mouth, the movement, the expression. There were people around but she remembered none of them. They were blurs on the outskirts of all space and time. She watched his hands strumming the guitar. Surely no one would notice her eyes on his hands. She could almost feel them underneath her fingertips. She was afraid to loose the moment, the moment of reality drowning in all the lies. It could not be stolen if she let it pass quickly. She moved her eyes to his feet. They tapped occasionally to the rhythm. She heard his voice, softer, richer, deeper, warmer than the sunlight that tickled her back. The light fell in torrents from the window. It seemed his voice fell with it, onto her…engulfing her fear, soothing her mind, warming her soul. She felt something leap within her. Yes, she knew…she knew she loved him.
She could not remember the words of the song he was singing. The melody lapped against her. It came like a messenger from the dim past, so remote, and now seemingly, so invisible and vague. Her lips, in recognition played with the words in her throat faintly. “Today is gonna be the day that they’re gonna give it back to you. And by now, you should have somehow realized what you gotta do. I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now.” The meaning was the meaninglessness in the words. Such a loss cannot be borne. But must be, she answered herself.
People started getting up. It was time to go. Figures rushed upstairs and down elevators. Bags piled high in the lobby. She looked at them all but did not see them. She walked carefully towards one corner. She saw his green shoes leaning against his bags. She saw his guitar case. She wished she could reach out and touch it. She clenched her hand to her side. Stay. I can express no more. She heard his footsteps and shivered as she quickly stepped away. She must always be away from him when all she wanted was to be close. She saw his mother and felt shame flaming in her cheeks. She wished she were dead. She looked now and then, hoping to receive some affirming look. Perhaps she did not blame her. She could not know. There was a mask tightly drawn just as the one gripping her own face.
She picked up her bags. They were as heavy as her heart. She tried to concentrate on fighting the hot tears that kept overwhelming her eyes. The icy wind stole them away quickly enough though as she pushed open the hotel doors. She was glad of it. It seemed to thaw and soothe the gaping wounds, the scorching tears within her. She stood in the snow and looked up at the shining blue above the pines where they had talked. Where the trees had whispered, where the snow had tickled her eyelashes, where he and she had met and felt safe, embraced by the trees, the mist, and the thick snow. She had felt that anything could have happened beneath those trees, whitened with snow. It had been a stronghold for her imagination. There, for a few short moments, she had been able to let go of every burden…and simply be. Be with him. She saw him hugging friends goodbye. She envied them. She saw the scarf around his neck and caught her breathe. There it was, his signal, his warning sign. He warned her not to loose heart. She must trust it. She must trust him. She remembered the hours her fingers had labored to draw the pieces of black and white and red yarn together. She remembered laughing as she looked down on it, finished, and sprayed her perfume into its warm folds and crevices. She remembered its softness in her hands. She saw the moment she had given it to him. She remembered the words she had uttered as she handed it proudly with both hands, folded around a CD of songs she had written for him. “Merry Christmas John. I made them both for you.” And there the scarf hugged his neck. The strands of yarn her hands had touched so many times were touching his neck now. Nothing but a faint whisper of hope entered into her darkened soul as her eyes followed that scarf. She remembered herself and climbed into the car.
Her face was wet and warm. She wished she could open the window to feel the snowflakes fall, frozen against her face. Instead she pressed her cheek to the window. She must do everything she could to stay alive. She feared she would stop feeling if she did not let the cold bite into her skin. Her cheek became numb against the glass as she watched first the trees and snow moving by, then the city and the people, all the people with their faces telling stories She tried not to look at them. They told her stories she did not want to hear. She did not want to think. It was six hours back home. She did not remember most of it…only that she often thought she felt his hands closing around hers. Then she would wake up to find it was a dream…and she would press her cheek closer to the window…to feel alive, to remember her what it was to feel…and then let the numbness surround her.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

The Cobblestones

Finally forgotten,
My words shudder as they fly
Towards the tired heavens’ gentle stare
What fine weather we are having
Some say
But you simply vanished
In the air

Today I told a story
To the smirking cobblestones
They only looked at me and frowned.
You see they didn’t like the way
I rambled on.
No one wants to listen

Still I hear your voice
When the warm night sleeps
It breaks into my dreams and tells me
I simply can’t go back
To when the trees were yellow
And when the sun
Was green.

But maybe
Through the warm night
You’ll hear me too
If I reply that I don't care
I will escape.
The cobblestones would be proud
I am silent

The Motor

There is no more reasoning to be done. I have found it. Or at least I have finally uncovered my illness, though I do not know its cause or its cure at present. However, I feel that soon I must uncover these as well since I have found the beginning of the trail. The growing unrest that simmers beneath my skin is simply this: that the life that is in me, the love and passion and ability that give me purpose appear to be drying up like a fading stream. I am thirsty for truth, I am lost, I am blinded, I am weakened. I know not why it goes or whence, but something is abandoning me. I wish to, yet dare not know what the nature of this obscurity is. A shadowy fear of knowledge lurks in the weak recesses of my soul.
Must I be afraid of loosing myself? If I loose myself for an ultimate good, that is no loss is it? That is, there can be only one Thing worth loosing myself for, and He is noble and worthy and the loss is beautiful and fit and perfect. However, what of losing myself to an infinite void? What if I slowly decay into nothing? What can I do to prevent this horror?
I will not, cannot tell anyone of this, my deepest self, but him. This realization is perhaps a glimpse into this loss of myself. Perhaps it is because he has become nothing but a face and the remembrance of a dream to me that I sink. My being is delicately tied to him, and he but a dream. My soul is pulled down by the rock of that dream into the drowned blue deep of nothingness. No, it is not beautiful. I feel powerless against it, and yet there must be an escape. I hear the answer whispered in my ear. “Tie your soul to something that can lift you and your heavy dreams out of the drowning water.”
‘The youth is passionate,’ they say, ‘but as the sprout grows older and the world with him, he discovers that his passion is in vain. There is nothing he can love that is truly worthy. There is nothing he can trust that is firmly fixed. There is nothing that is beautiful but his own illusions.’ Is this then reality, my poor soul? Do you not see where this path will lead you? Alas, you see far beyond the words you write, and it is those same words that pushed your mind thus far. It is they who urged you around the bend that you might travel towards the next. It is they who unwound your mind, just as you wished he could…and he could but he is gone. Think not my sweet of love that has burned amidst the melting wax until it split the tender hearts of youth. Sigh no more.
What of that potential, that purpose, that power that writhes in anguish, contained by your stronghold’s walls? Will you set it free that it may find its meaning? Will you act upon this desire to serve, to love, to worship, to work, to make, to do, to live? Will you cease to hoard that power inside of you where it rots and will become revolting, even to your own eyes? Will you not place it, knowingly, with your eyes wide open, into the hands of the inventor?
You are that motor that will change the world. However, you must first become one with your Creator. Then you will function. Then you will be fit to fulfill your purpose. Then the missing parts will be restored. Then you will become a human being again. Do not rot away in a dark tunnel under the ground. You must become a light to the people of the earth.
My but water is sweet, as sweet as truth. What say you, oh phantom of the night? You are my soul. Answer me. Will you drive your course towards the hidden purpose, or will you sit in grey solitude of mind and decay in dust along with your body? Oh wonderful soul, it is His way to let you choose your course. Do you not wish to encounter Him, your Inventor, the Mind behind your own? What wonder is this that the motor should meet its Inventor? However it may be, this motor is the pride of the Inventor’s life. It is the work of His hands, mind, and soul. It possesses the same spark of divinity that lies in Him. Well then, is the motor not a beautiful thing if only it functions as it was meant to? Will it not, in that state, be the closest to it’s own true meaning and be filled with the joy of purpose? Question this weary mind no more. The end is reached. Do not let this world swallow your purpose. Remember, oh man, that you are but a man.
I saw you in the sea today,
Peering at my reflection,
I saw you staring back at me.

As if I were a ghost

The Lies I Hold Onto

Did I ever tell you that I lie?
You always told me that you'd try
To make me smile sometimes

Did I ever tell you that I tried
To fake a smile for you sometimes
So that you'd know I try.

You always told me that you liked
The way I played with your hands.
I always told you that I liked
The way I played with your hands.

Did I ever tell you that I cry
Did I, did I...

I memorize all the time that we're together
I lie awake at night and memorize
I lie awake to pass the time

tired, tired, so tired of waiting
you didn't come
you didn't come
you didn't come

Cut to the bone my fingers shiver
Cut to the bone where are you now?
Cut to the bone I love you still
I lie awake to pass the time

Did I ever tell you that I lie?
I lie awake to pass the time.
You always told me that you'd try
To make me smile sometimes.