Without the idolatry of
I wouldn’t have found
the grandeur of
What if I wanted to be a ghost?
Long ago I raised my heart on the steps of your temple,
I asked of you to make me invisible,
Now I balance the sword you gave me carefully.
No longer can anyone see me,
I may as well be dead.
But now I see my Self ever so clearly,
And that is worse than others seeing me.
They told me, go for a walk, get some shut eye, clear your mind.
What would they know? Mindless drivel at it’s best because what they don’t realise is, I don’t want my mind cleared.
No, I’m quite happy lingering in these thoughts, sifting through the web of confusion, the echoes of pain that percuss off the valleys and mountains of my soul, haunting it with a northerly wind carrying the scent of uncertainty, through rocks, rustling restless leaves until they settle on the garden beds of meadows and compost into the soil of my heart.
I’ll sit right here in this corner, away enough for you to not be the piece of furniture in your way, quite content to have these thoughts punishing me, rummaging through my being enticing every cell of my body to engage in recreating memories or forging the future.
What you don’t realise is that clearing your mind is emptying your soul of substance.
Pain is there to help you grow.
Confusion is there to help you figure things out, to allow your brain to exercise.
Sadness is there so you may elate in the joy and know it’s value when it hits you in the front teeth, lest you remain an ingrate.
The voices are there not because you’re a schizophrenic, but because they’re meant to keep you company and offer you another perspective to the one you harbour in your heart, be it at the opposite end of the spectrum or merely a few inches away from where your thoughts currently reside, still you need something off course to correct your path and purify it.
Anger is there to keep you on your toes, alert so you never sway from clarity of purpose.
Whatever it is, don’t be a numb and mindless drone, subservient to the commands of the mundane. Ride the edge of your character and crack its whip until your fingers bleed or your mind annihilates.
Photo Credit: http://mjob.deviantart.com/art/fallen-leaves-362321061
Excerpt from: Almond Geisha
….Oh that hair,
Incessant, stubborn curls,
You hated them but I adored them,
You always wanted to straighten them,
But I loved the way you wore them,
Long draping curls like falling autumn browns,….
For some it’s the conversation.
For others it’s the mere presence.
And for others more, the physical chemistry is unifying.
Whatever the myriad of reasons may be, there is a person that has the ability to keep us awake and alert, pandering to whatever it is they say, do, feel or imbue.
Am I a narcissist for longing not for another human but for the paralysis of life at night where I can converse with myself and distil my thoughts?
Do yourself a favour, read this.
How to write sleepy prose by Nina Karadzic – http://wp.me/p4Gx61-Rm
Well worth following too.