If I Can Survive
My Own Narrative,
I’m Certain I’ll
You don’t feel this moment like I do?
You don’t see the colors inside your brain when the music is playing?
You don’t hear patterns of colors as they hit your retina and cling to your memory?
Your body doesn’t become warm when certain sentences dance in cadence?
You don’t wander through ancient paths looking for your ghost?
You don’t concentrate all your focus on never being the person you once were?
You haven’t read through stories of past lives looking for your own future?
You don’t understand why I don’t understand the point of this meeting?
Your chest doesn’t swell when gray blankets the sky matching your senses?
Oh. You don’t.
I do though.
Maybe I’ll permit myself to love the grace given to me.
As I surface from depths I never anticipated, I couldn’t help but notice I finally came-to somewhere I was never before.
Your expectations for me are expectations I never placed on myself, and never could I if I ever tried.
A world breaks in filled with nonsense to everyone not me but I can relate to this alien-rationale.
Anxiety mounts to perform in ways that will break me even as I finally breath the freshest of air and taste the most nourishing fruit.
As I justify my existence by the words others speak but don’t themselves practice, I suddenly realize no one knows what is coming out of their mouths.
I lean in further to the foreign land’s ways as I wash ashore now, not to be welcomed in the way I thought but instead further burdened.
The only sense I can make of it all is we are always never listening to others and we are always ever speaking to ourselves.
My only wish I have left is to speak as confidently about myself as others wishfully do for themselves.
The alien-rationale softly grips me tighter: Love your neighbor as yourself. As yourself. As yourself.
I feel clear.
Clarity, not out of arrogance.
Clarity, out of:
“Finally, I see and feel!
And now I am certain of how little I know.”
I am clear of the only things I must know.
I am clear of the only things I must feel.
I woke up today seeing my weightless burden.
I am well with what has been taken from me.
Clearly, I must give, now that I have so little.
The fever dream clears all present worries,
A sickness which purges pitiful pursuits,
Clarity pierces in the softest of forms,
Pasts are washed ashore, clean, bright, zealous.
Death started as soon as life began,
Hastening death only means to turn the fever
Into a victor for which it is not. It is a lie.
The fog lifts, the disease dies, and life loudly whispers.
I know you’ll wake up inside your mind
In order to discover the visions were true
And never had places to set themselves into
The dusted covered up screaming face
Of lost passions justified by pursuits
Entangled in the next best thing
The way things are not suppose to be
But in the ways other’s desires burn intently,
Forgive my lack of self care
It was never a duration of time I wanted
While sifting through debris piles
Justified by covering up a true person,
As I provide you papers which are built
Inside a system of discarding without learning,
As I want you to not want any of this,
I maintain these words are desperately crafted.
There is no way anything can speak volumes
About an entire life, my life, your life
Those who we never care for or choose to see
If there was never a rounding to the closest soul,
I’ll check the math again and skip over mistakes
I maintain in order to never see stark pasts
Inside multiple light sources shouting down
Shallow intimacy with a person no one knows
Why provide documentation stating
Zero passions built on top of decaying foundations
With lyrical rhythmic bullet points filling space
To get you faster to no where I would ever go,
Approaching the slumbering forgetful mind
Not paying attention to everyone Abba keeps putting
On beaten down walking paths I can’t find on a map
But which tread painful impressions at sacred destinations.
The freedom is found far from fitting in,
It’s relief cannot be measured,
There is no price to put on it,
A valuation most pay a life or two for.
A realization floods over every fiber,
It’s mark leaving scar tissue of the most beautiful kind,
Imprinting not freedom from others,
But binding to each passing soul.
Breathing slowly recaptures everything,
There is no avoidance of hard work,
A commitment to freedom summons
Heartfelt joy for the hardest possible task:
Looking into each others eyes,
And looking into your own.
The rhythmic pilgrimage cycles back today,
A ritual imprinting itself onto my heart
Not as relief but as duty,
My life as I have known it depends on it.
Surrounded by others settling into the camp,
We will come with our burdens, our expectations,
Our hopes which were spilled out across the grounds,
And love will rise from shattered pieces.
If this is only an autumn occurrence
Somehow I was not told of its ending in the winter,
Nor last spring, nor this summer,
As the place I journey to on this day forgot to stay
Inside its autumn home and wandered with me
Through seasons I’d wish upon not a single soul.
This ritual, this holy event, it haunted all year.
This day, this pilgrimage, hitched a ride back with me
It journeyed with me to come to my holy place,
And never let me alone till I finally said:
“Here is my crushed self,
Here is my true self,
Take it, I hope others will take it too.”
You want me to be something
Other than the disaster I am
With none of the side effects of
Losing regrets I’ll never see completed.
There is a constant sense of
Moving along without self inflicted burdens,
Yet born out of terrors are the exact
Words we all desire of me.
So come, rescue what’s left if you want,
But please, for the sake of
Sacredness within all we see and feel,
Rescue everything, take the depths too.