Homeward-Bound

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“If light is in your heart, you will find your way home.”
-Rumi

This road keeps getting stranger and stranger. This path has gone through the pits of hell and the heights of heaven, thrown me into too many incredible people, broken me, mended me, stripped me of everything, given me everything, tossed me and turned me in all its own unimaginable ways, and it has made me.

Truth is, nothing has gone quite according to plan. I am not entirely the person I expected myself to become.

Somehow this path has twisted and turned so many times, and life has given me so many unnecessary, but essential, stops. It’s made me who I am, and I am somehow happy with that.

My only one certain truth, is that I am still walking this road, and wherever it takes me, I hope I’m heading home.

There is this energy greater than hope; something inside me knows I’m heading home.

We all carry this truth inside us.

Somehow we all carry this memory of home. Something inside you reminds me of the home I’d left so long ago, maybe eighteen years ago, and maybe many years before. (Funny that we try to measure these things with our own blurred concept of time.)

Something inside us is walking towards the same destination; clear your road that I may find you there, and perhaps, with any luck, we can walk together.

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Anna

Death knows not my solemn dream,
Dying in her’s all that seems
To light the fire in mine eye,
Touched with the flame of hers to die.

Music runneth from her lips,
Rests in the harmony of her soul,
And I will drink a thousand sips,
Sweet poison settled in her bowl.

And in my heart of hearts I’ve vowed,
Unknowingly but yet I did,
To die an amorous victim, 
Unknowingly but yet I will.

Muttered I an’ ever spoke?
To what occasion must I speak?
For hearts that wander, life that broke,
Will not mend a world so bleak.

Did not her eyes beset a fire?
Enchantment did not last a day,
But took a day and stretched it high’r,
Lit infernos in my everyday.

My Anna will not speak of love,
For time that’s longer than her own,
She’ll speak of men that travel free,
To hold on hours on the phone.

And in my heart of hearts I’ve vowed,
Unknowingly but yet I did,
To die an amorous victim, 
Unknowingly, my Anna’s will.

To Love

It has been months,
My mouth has uttered no poetry,
My pen has written no rhyme.

It has been months,
That I can’t grab a hold of me,
Driven and led, only I by time.

And no, the rhyme does not come easy,
It does not flow like honeycombs,
There is no welcome at its doors,
And it will not dwell in homes.

Only I here, a man without word,
To speak or write of she,
Recount the torment of her prison,
She’s locked us there now, her and me.

And I cannot write without a pain,
And I cannot speak without an ache,
I cannot think with less this mem’ry,
Sweet word-blossoms, my fields won’t make.

And I am overdosed on time,
The time that was my medicine,
And I am dying still of rhyme,
The rhyme that was my only sin.

To love and not know words to speak,
That is how my love remains.
Hid, not weakened, ever bleak,
Love knows not its own love’s pains.

To love, I shed a mourner’s tear,
To days again we’ll meet not here.
To love, I write with will so small,
For love has broken all of me.

“Universe”

I often find myself pondering at the meaning of words, their origins. I enjoy those philosophical/contemplative novel words, the things you won’t exactly find in a dictionary, words like wonderwall, sonder, pluviophile, nyctophile, philophobia, etc.

Still other words, literary or archaic, that also would not be so much used in everyday life, tend to my thought and attention, words like hamartia, pseudo-intellectual (yes, Woody Allen!), pedantic, etc.

And there is also a third category of words that I like. It is that which encompasses the words that mean one thing, but also a whole other, deeper, thing. And of those words to me, stems the “universe”.

I like to believe the word universe describes, aside from the mystery of our vast, complex, changing but constant world, the context of a single verse, that summarizes the world-universe. A uni-verse for the universe.

But then again, what words of wisdom so short as to not exceed a single verse, could wholly satisfy the cataclysm that is our world?

I do not know, and I do not pretend to.

But the thought of a uni-verse still drives my thoughts, knowing still, that though the truth is not found, it must exist.

The existense of truth is in itself, a truth. That will be my truth, that will be my justice, my solace until I find a fuller answer.

“For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.”
-Arthur O’Shaughnessy, excerpt “from Ode”

Happiness: The Serotonin Shot Anecdote

An old man sits on the front porch of an old, weary house. As the people pass by, he tries to subdue his loneliness with memories of his past, reading newspapers and rereading old news again and again.

All of a sudden, and every so often, a noise or movement shakes this state of delusion, and he sees himself, old and wrinkled, desolate and waiting for a calm destruction. The memories come back as he wonders how truly, the happiness has gone from his life.

A relation perhaps visits the man every week or so, to check on his health, or rather put bluntly, the persistence of his now lowly existence. The man speaks of loneliness, of impending death, and of now bitter-sweet memories, going on and on, up and down the timeline of life, finishing in exhaustion, pleading and gesturing helplessly for an escape.

With the persistence of a man who has lost all, and has not more to hope for than a grain of happiness, his few distant relations decide to fulfill his pleadings.

Thus on a bleak autumn night, when the winds blew heavier, and the rain fell thicker than it would most days of October, the old man, fallen asleep by a windowpane, is rushed awake, yet calmly, by his distant relative.

He’d come with the cure; in his right hand clasping, measured precisely, a shot of Serotonin, the happiness hormone.

Without restraint and expecting approval, the younger, middle-aged, man rolls the elder’s sleeve, feels around his frail forearm for a vein, sets the needle in, firmly, the old man holding his breath, a tear going down his pale face. Pressing down, the shot is injected, and suddenly, no magically, the tear dried and the breath exhaled, his eyes fix for a moment, his pupils dilate, and in an abrupt twitch, the old man bursts into a loud laughter.

His happiness was restored.

“What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know, goes away in the end.” -Johnny Cash

Photo credit: PhotoAtelier / Foter / CC BY

Real World: Dreamworld

I sometimes like to imagine my entire life is a dream.
I think it gives me a sense of security, that somehow, deep down, I can control my world, except that I simply don’t know how.

I think it keeps me at bay from the more likely, more frightening reality of a world that’s completely out of control, out of mind, careless to throw me at the rocks as the waves that rush to a rocky shore, with time the harsh waters, and fate the fickle winds that blow upon them.

On that thought though, if my life really were a dream, I think I’d diagnose my subconscious with quite a masochistic tendency.

(P.S.: Please don’t interpret that last line too literally haha)

Photo credit: InAweofGod’sCreation / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)