I can say, “I love you,”
or I can tell you:
you are my means
and my end.
you are my how,
and my why.
Tag: spiritual
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I cannot tell you how many times it’s felt like my heart has swelled near the point of bursting in my life. Like you’re so full of life and all it may entail that you could just pop.
It can swell with joy, with grief, with contentment, with love— today, it swells with joy and contentment alike. I cannot explain how happy I feel. Things just feel… right. Like finally making it out of a long, dark night. Dawn was last year. I enjoyed the Sunrise, but doubted the Sun would stay up for long.
Well, now it’s midday, and the Sun shows no sign of dimming, pinned firmly at a zenith.
I love this life. There’s that swelling feeling: gratitude, right now.
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Like that old poet, I too walk by a chasm. Sometimes I peer over the edge— sometimes I dangle my feet— sometimes I throw rocks in and wait for a thud (I hear none). Like him, I am fated to fall in one day.
But sometimes, I wish I could jump in and free fall. That’s the thing about that pit: there is no bottom. You’re falling for certain, but rock bottom is a place reserved for people who have an end to their madness. No bottom exists in this pit.
Sometimes I wish I could give myself to the neurosis, to that dark space within. No matter how well-adjusted I seem, I always carry that blizzard— that place of chaos.
I know not a poet nor tormented artist that does not carry that chasm within them, too. I think it’s common to all of us. The gift of the artist is in channeling that madness— a controlled free-fall. I think the only artist doomed to fall in early is the one who does not channel the pit into their work.
Write a poem and throw it into the pit, it requires tribute. If you do not throw your art into it, its sickly-sweet siren song will beckon until either you or your creations fall in; yes, it demands one or the other. Indeed, the void will call— how will you answer?
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the princes of Hel
fight
for a noble cause—
how
can a prince
of the chasm
weather such frost?
perhaps
a Promethean flame
fit
to overthrow the gods.
The Asteri,
beings of light,
society’s pinnacle—
stars
in priestly robes—
pin the masses
so beautifully
with the gravity
of six red Suns,
with an obscured
red right hand—
who said Hel was evil?
who said light
couldn’t burn?
who said the devil
was ugly?
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i had no innocence left
to be tainted,
but i wanted to protect yours.
i’ll never forget the pain
of watching it die.
i tried to give you
what i never had—
an older brother who was safety.
but i couldn’t save you
from them.
i couldn’t give you the Christmas
you deserved.
i couldn’t stop the waves,
couldn’t quench the flame,
couldn’t still the quake,
could not calm the hurricane.
no,
we were cut from a tainted cloth.
i resented
watching you learn that fact.
i could see
the question in your panicked eyes,
behind the shock,
the fear, the sorrow—
the “why?”
i have no answer.
i only know
they burnt our home to the ground.
i alone
am left with ash in my hands.
i felt not a thing
when it truly did burn,
for I’d already mourned
our house long consumed by flames.
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the gravity of my own selfishness: how dare I wallow in my own shallow suffering, this kiddie pool I refuse to swim in, choose to drown in, while turning a blind eye to the ocean of pain in which the rest of the world treads?
sometimes it hits me full force: consumed by my own suffering, consumed by my own negativity, consumed by this void of my own making— the glass cracks, I see in full clarity my own pathetic weakness. so without purpose that I’ve created misty demons to slay myself. I spar with my own mind, ignoring the real fight.
hungry, hungry, hungry for purpose. take me out of myself. save me from myself. give me to service to escape the pit of my own mind. let me care for the welfare of another that I cease this selfish madness of constant self-pity. I am a man who inherited the world, yet convinced himself he had nothing.
this self-centered self pity, a leaden weight chained to the ankle. the masses carry the bolt cutters— to them I go
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Sometimes, you just need a message of hope. Something can only become a cliché if it is first a deep truth. So, here it goes:
You must, must trust that things will get better. You must. You must hope, you must have faith, you must believe. Hope is the seed of a bright future. Tell me: without hope, without the belief that things can improve, what else are you to do? It is not by magic that hope produces wonders; rather, it is the fuel that will keep you going, the fuel that lets you not just work wonders, but put in the work to create wonders.
You should believe that God, fate, the universe, will meet you halfway, maybe even 75% of the way if you can muster 25% — but one without hope is one who does not try. Stubborn optimism is sometimes the most practical thing a person can do, because without it, it is far too easy to excuse inaction. Why try if nothing can get better? But they who trust that life can improve if they try are those who take action to make it so.
So, remember: you feel sorrow right now. But oh, I wish you could fast forward 5 years from now. I wish you could gain that perspective.
I want you to look back at yourself 5 years ago. What obstacles did you face then that you’ve overcome now? What burdened you then that has long been alleviated? I wish you could know that future you looks back on you now in the same way.
You carry a lonely heart right now, yes. You do. But love is patient. Love, it is the most patient thing. There is no rushing love, there is no rushing Earth’s fruits. You want a lush garden, you must wait for the seedling to grow and reach skyward. You do not demand it sprout now and reach for the Sun, you do not yank it by the roots and demand it grow. Love: it is patient, it is patient. The best things in life are worth waiting for. You will hold the hand of your lover and look back and laugh at how worried you were. You will look back and know, it was all worth it.
You must have faith that this is so, you must. You must have faith, you must know that faith works wonders, because it is the wonder of faith that makes you work. Faith will be your fuel on this journey. You do not have faith and then sit; no, faith is that which carries one foot after the other, trusting that the road holds a destination. But he without faith sits and gives up.
You will hold faith, and you will continue, and you will look back and know: it was worth it.