Pensé que yo fuerte. Confié en que la esperanza ganaría. Me encontré en la oscuridad una noche y nunca escapé de ella. No me desesperé. Me aferré a lo que ardía por dentro y encendí un fuego en mi corazón para guiar mi camino. Me arrojé al corazón del abismo y me aferré desesperadamente a un hilo de esperanza que sentía que permanecía allí. Ese hilo era todo yo que tenía. La única conexión con un poco de luz dentro de mi alma para mantener caliente el fuego en mi corazón. Ese hilo se rompió hoy y ahora me quedo frío, desamparado y solo. Perdí mi corazón y ahora mi corazón nunca volverá.
Ramblings
In Corde Meo Memoria
I always envisioned myself as some archangel battling demons across clouds of crimson that streaked the skies. Everything was so straight forward; everything made sense. Two sides, good and evil, pick one or the other and make that the good side. Even in that fantasy hell could be heaven.
As I flitted through life I found no strong connection to either side. For both were born from inside me. Machinations that tie the history of humankind together. And yet, even in that I found no belonging. I wished to fight both sides which bears no fruit and could only lead to one outcome: my destruction. A single man pitted against to towering ideologies that existed before me and will continue to after me. How could I hope to win?
I loved it all the more. Incessant in nature to fight the losing battle. Further forward in life the colours swirl and black and white was simply an illusion. A way to make the chaos of the world seem somewhat manageable; as us versus them is an easy concept to hide behind. I dip in all the colours and taste their delights with no one colour hitting that sweet tooth of my soul.
It is not the black I hide in. Nor the white I use to blind others. It isn’t the myriad of millions of colours that dress me in their spirits. It’s the vacancy of verisimilitude; a vacuum vivacious in its viscosity, and venereal in its vernacular.
Look, I gave away my heart and it will not return. The sea is my only friend, far swept from any land or dwelling place. No one to visit me and no place to call my home. I am not lost…I simply do not belong.
Quis Scit
One of my favorite moments is right before a show, hanging out alone: hidden in the wings, as the audience gets settled. Feeling the energy and buzz of the crowd as they stream into the theatre and settle into their seats. Where I am unnoticed and they are all that their day has led them to be. It fills me and feeds me and I can sit in those moments into perpetuity.
My other favorite moment is when the show is over and the stage is empty. The crowd has all gone home and even the crew, and I have the stage and theatre absolutely to myself. Sometimes it is showing up early to a rehearsal, sometimes staying late: either way, when I and the stage are alone. Most often it is when I am not involved in any production or cast or crew. Just visiting a stage of past: a raised platform of wood, or stone, or rock; or an entirely new stage. I love to grab those moments by myself.
To sit alone on stage and let its history or dreams of its future swirl around me. Everything else has its moments and they are brief in time. A play goes for ninety minutes on average, and maybe I get a run of a month; how I would long for a year. Even then it would serve its time and move on. The stage however remains, and I with it.
People come and fill the stage with a variety of sets and decorations. Many lives are carried out on its surface. Sweat, blood, and tears stain its grain and it absorbs it all. Carrying each life and production lived deep into its core and there lie the memories and experiences of all time. It serves its many parts as I play my many parts.
Those are the moments I often ruminate in and sit in more and more. My heart has heard the roars of love. A spell which lifts me up towards the greater sky and sails me to different heights. The stage though, absorbs all heartbreak.
Before The Fall
I feel their eyes bearing down on me
Assessing me, peering in to traverse
The maze I have erected to catch
A glimpse of what I hold inside.
Not out of judgement
Nor condemnation,
As much as I might wish it so, No
It is out of care
Out of love.
I don’t wish to be loved right now,
Except for the love I know
I cannot have.
My heart has left me
Given to another (to her)
Taken to a place I cannot travel to.
Solely left to feel everything,
Apart from her.
Lost and lonely
Out to sea again
Face pressed to the rising seafoam
Greeting my cheeks
With a forlorn kiss.
I once hailed ‘land ho’
But now greet my lifelong friend
The open sea.
Seagull
She was the seagull who became the Phoenix,
-Sir Winston Lear
And all who beheld her beauty were glad to have seen it.
From the melancholic mind sprout the machinations that were better off when undefined. I charted a course for the barren sea and in that voyage my new found visage came to form. I left behind everything beautiful I held inside to fade into the shifting colours with that sadly setting sun. The darkness drew me forth to toil among the frothy warring waves. Long sailed I with no light to guide my way—for I had killed my heart, which was my compass.
Adrift alone through the arctic dark I stood; a blinded lookout with no soul to spy. An unearthly vessel approached alongside, garbed in bleak blackness, its sails darker than the night. Charon called and I heeded his hail. The waves abated as I took his hand and stepped forth into that melancholy flood. We sailed together in pensive poise, until I could remember no other colour than the surrounding black.
The days coalesced as we sailed along; two lone bodies not fit for any form of partnership. As I reflected on a memory I had often visited I spied a raven circling above. Her obsidian feathers gleamed in the surrounding gloom. Our eyes found each other’s as she dove down to greet me. Landing on the bowsprit I took her in. Obsidian shifting into onyx, the blackness that she bore shifted and transfixed me, brightening the nothing that had encompassed me.
Lost in her eyes something burgeoned forth from deep within. She cawed and darted to my shoulder as clouds convened in the iridescent sky. My perilous neighbor stood unmoved, fading as the glinting colours of the newly rising sun shot forth to push back the nothingness. My eyes went white as the light swallowed me up.
I awoke washed up on shore, greeted by the gentle lapping of the waves as they caressed the stoic earth. I heard her before I spotted her and spied her farther down the beach, leading me to my washed up craft. Inside I found all the beauty I had left behind, long forgotten and abandoned, but fresh as the day I had left them. Deep within the pile shined my heart, beating in slow rhythmic fashion I held it in my hands and felt all the world again.
You gave me back all that I did once lose,
This heart of mine I freely give to you.
Stop After the Quote
All self-pity is rooted in people taking themselves too seriously.
Tom Robbins
The familiar saccharine smell greets my nose
A slight sharp sting as I receive the dose.
An old memory that always floods forth
To change my heading as I veer off course.
What did you expect from me?
I am a scavenger of hearts.
Here lies a Flower so sweet and divine
Offering that which I can’t return in kind.
The lone survivor growing in a field
Burnt down to ash by that which is not healed.
I spent a lifespan with no cellmate.
Why can't they just look the other way?
The Questions I never wanted to know
Impart in my mind things that should not grow.
I board this ship to take my final leave
Alone, bereft of all, so I can grieve.
How are things on the west coast?
Today my heart roams the empty beaches.
No, I don't want a taste of victory.
No, I don't want to feel the wind.
I just want to be buried among the waves.
C – W
Calming clouds cover chaotic chorus
Demanding deepening denouncement.
Encircling emerging enlightenment.
Fixated ferociously forward for
Gruesome greed, germinating
Her heinous harrowing horror.
Indulging in incessant insanities,
Join judgingly joyous, justifying
Knavely knackered kindred.
Losing lauded luster. Leaving
Morose, melancholic meaning—mastered
Namely near nothingness.
Of orderly onslaught overcoming
Poignantly powerful poise-positions.
Quickly, quietly, questioning
Righteous reverence. Restricting renewed
Struggle. Severing seeming success.
Tearing truth towards the tortous
Unknown. Upholding unbelief unto
Vicious vernacular, venerating
Worthless words with weightless wit.
Life Was Simpler
I started out with a quiet dream of flying, sailing the winds as the sun warmed me to my conflagrant core. Coursing through these precipitous clouds, feeling the damp dew drift along the edges of my face; outlining the fractal details in an iridescent display of colour. Alone amid the barrier between space and earth, not beholden to one or the other.
I wasn’t a horse in the running. I could slip by unnoticed; no mention of my name. My thoughts weren’t overladen with process or prospects. I could write freely in a flow that formed effortlessly on the blank canvas of my mind. Before it was blotted, torn, and smeared by these dyspeptic years.
Even then the red brick loomed over me but it wasn’t a wall to fight against. It was a place to rest beneath. A friend to block out the harsh sun; a shadow to give respite not an enemy out of spite.
Now my mind is too full while my soul feels the earth’s pull. I stare up at the sky, closing my eyes, and all I can do now is try and remember what it was like to fly. The bright iridescent colours have dulled to gray as my thoughts begin to fray. I used to pretend that all the world was a stage. Now I am locked hopelessly away in knowledge’s cage.
John 3:30
Promise me this
Neon Gravestones — twenty one pilots
If I lose to myself
You won’t mourn a day
And you’ll move on to someone else.
The advancing assault continues in a cyclical fashion. The suffocating surge of self has advanced to it’s maximum depth. The oscillating orbit of this soul sounding satellite has reached it’s peak and now it is time to withdraw. These earthen banks gleam with fresh beginnings as they disgorge their retreating rival. The tears being left behind do not belong to the new found beaches that burgeon forth; being evaporated into a mist which no one misses.
Ecclesiastes 3:7
What was once void of surface life now enjoys the company of countless lives. Their dreams and aspirations as numerous as the grains of sand that hold them up. Homes of heart are built with foundations being laid deep into this land; cornerstones that shape the landscape into communities. Erecting a visage that has forgotten the torment which flowed here not so long ago. The resounding reason being the faith that this time the pendulum will not perpetuate its period.
Nocturne No.15
Deep in the recess of the mind we find what we hide. Full of richness of thought and delving into the darkest parts we hold inside. This little reservoir of truth that leads to the opening of the armoire of proof that we are but shadows of what we can be. And some of us are fortunate enough to find ways to break free—of these chains that burgeon and bind us with no key. But too often the story left untold is that of who’s soul is left to rot in winter’s cold.
— Sir Winston Lear
If I could share the sweet melody that swirls in the mist of thought that fills this unholy void you might be moved. You might even feel so much as to be inspired or if you are very lucky, shed a tear. You might reminisce on a past version of yourself, connecting in thought and time to a specific place or feeling. You might smile from such nostalgia or shrink from the lingering fear. You might find yourself transported for a brief moment of time to a distant world rife with imagination, and dreams, and desires.
You might even go so far as to believe this fantasy I’ve created for you, but in the end that’s all it is, a lie. A lie I’ve created that is so deeply rooted in my cerebrum that to remove it, or change it, would mean the death of all that is me. I can fight the lie, or give into the lie, but I cannot kill the lie. There is no truth in these pale cold words because there is no truth inside. This hollow heart lies captured in a cage of a barren being. The tune you hear is faint and fleeting; the lingering lie of this cacophonous cry.