Illusions

Monotonous confessions swirling in the vortex of emotion
Clawing up to the surface to breathe in what is necessary and let go of filler

Survival tactics called upon when threatened
And faced with the illusion of decision

Choice is fleeting

Fabrications of elemental constructs block the purpose of original intent
Flippantly discarding what could essentially tear down the walls that were established involuntarily
Or possibly voluntarily
Whichever it is doesn’t matter
Either way
A wall
Is a wall

Irony permeates the moral fabric
As the wreckage starts to slip away
Leaving an open expansion
That can be interpreted
As Desolation
Or Freedom

Perception is the only reality.

Where It’s At

Vacillating between the extremes of too much
And not enough
Inevitably leaves room to feel
Like the middle is incorrect

The elusive search for balance
Continues to remind me
That everything is
Exactly as it should be
No matter what feelings are attached

As the quest for knowledge increases inside
The outside initially fights
But concedes to the flow
That is already occurring

Constantly trying to fight the current
By swimming upstream
Hardly feels natural, now

Each day
I wake up
And know
That it will be vaguely specific

The big picture
Never
Materializes in details

So here I sit
At the park
Writing this
To ease the unease
Of what was originally meant to be simple

I breathe in
And am reminded
Of how thankful I am for the air
Even though I never asked for it

To Love At All

A beautiful paragraph that I must share. Profound and personal. How long I have been guilty of this–and how grateful I am that it is no longer a working part of my belief system.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it careful round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket–safe, dark, motionless, airless–it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable…The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers…of love is Hell.” (C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves)

epitaph for the soulless

Reblogged from the tenth muse:

there are

wide-eyed whiskey truths that trace velocities, backward. this

was never about you, the unfrozen intensity of a moment stretched

into a night, a pair of nights, sub- aqueous drownings

in a river that knows too many mornings, inconstancy of under-

current winter horizons & jagged edges below the smooth

dark of summer waters;; an itch inside my skin i bury deeper with each

rasping handful of you and that the sunlight won’t re- wind; this,

this was never about you ex- cept that it is.

Cancel my like--I love this.

Truth

Anticipating the progression of the end
Floating past the beginning into the journey
Trying to feel the space fully, for some sort of closure or answer
I don’t know what I’m looking for but I’m sure you will give me all I need in that

I’m learning, experiencing, trying, waiting, listening
Sitting with “it”
Uncomfortable, but ok with that
The deeper knowing makes sense at my core

The feelings will pass
They always do
But that doesn’t mean it’s easy, this life as I know it

This journey fearlessly into the unknown vast expansion of the soul
The sadness that is necessary for joy
The enlightenment that comes through pain
The creativity that overflows after a drought

Aware of the unawareness that is present so many times when myself gets in the way
Synchronicity vanishes when ego arrives

Holding onto the illusive is a recipe for insanity
Serendipity expected when aligned with the source

Simple linguistic nuances more profound than eloquent speech that waters down the true meaning
Hiding behind the words are the hidden meanings unfiltered by context

Filling the spaces with what really matters
Which sometimes means with nothing
The absence of

Fueled from deep within is the product that is evident and created out of nothing
By myself
I sit
But not alone
Never alone

A fearless wanderer in the devout pursuit and expectation of truth

A Work In Progress

Accessing that place that was avoided for so long
Cultivating the soil that was easier to leave alone
Undisturbed to the point of death
Life only comes to the living

Simple paradigm shift causing the most drastic tsunami of the soul
As it washes away the debris
Accumulated by stagnation and indifference

Placing value on the process
Rather than the symptom
That presented itself as a chain reaction

Looking and seeing
Past the emotion
That often clouds an unobstructed view

Breathing in and out
While cognizant
Of the tiny space
That separates the two
Aware of the fluidity of said space

Deconstructing the tiny fragments
So eventually
They will fit together
As a whole
Completely

Oh, The Plight.

The most awful thing to happen to a creative is the inability to create what we deem creative. This is the illusive Mecca that we try to arrive at, for self validation. To give the feelings a reason to exist if we can present them artistically–as if they are not acceptable if not colorfully conveyed.

This belief that perceived perfection is the ultimate goal is bullshit. In searching for myself, I find so much more. I stumble upon you–and in turn, I see me.

You always said that I took the scenic route instead of the clear path. That’s not such a bad thing. I’d much rather take the backroads than the interstate. If the point isn’t the destination, then I would much rather look at canopy roads and nature instead of semis and broken white lines. The space shared in this car with you is the fun part. I don’t know where we are going, it doesn’t matter. I don’t know where this is going–and I think that may be the answer I’ve been looking for.