The beautiful

One of the few pleasures I have had while I have been sick is the garden in my front yard. Amidst a tangle of milkweed, Monarch butterflies have laid their eggs and they have hatched into caterpillars. There they crawl about, eating the leaves in rhythmic and hypnotic quarter-circles, sticking to the bottom of the leaves, defying gravity, to escape the bare sun. And now, dying. They are eaten from the inside by parasitic fly larvae and deliquesced by viruses.

Why does this world kill the beautiful things?

Caterpillars are just a microcosm of the whole. Beautiful things are killed unequivocally, and those not killed are made as ugly as the rest. Fireflies die young. Lilacs flower for but weeks. Monsters begin as children.

The soul, most beautiful of all creations, is the most commonly killed beauty of all. Violence, greed, hate: all poison the soul, mar its purity, its innocence, its joy. They dissolve, melting into the same sickening poisons, in turn, poisoning more and continuing the cycle. Perhaps, that is the most terrifying thing of all: the devils were once human, cast into hell by the wickedness of others, garbed in evil by a world that did not love them.

Is it for the best then that the beautiful things die? Die physically before they die wholly? Death protects them by destroying them.

Trapped

How do you find freedom when your skin has started to feel like a prison? Steel bars bend more easily than the tearing of skin. My jail travels with me wherever I go.

What has come of the life I once knew, once sought? Where are my dreams? Even my mind is shackled, and the walls have pressed in past my skin. I have no time for grand dreams, hopes, when each day is a victory. Formerly, I dreamed of shining with the stars, with the fireflies. Now what am I? What do I have?

Feebleness. Malaise. Frailty.

Enemies once unseen have ruined me. How do you fight what you cannot see? What you cannot hurt?

I want to run. I don’t know to where. I’m not even sure why. But I want to run far from here, from everywhere, far from people and their lies, far from society, far from the illusions and treachery and trickery. Far from myself. Even if I could escape everyone and everything else, I can’t get far enough away from me. From the me that isn’t, that does not exist, yet has managed to steal my body, my mind, my hopes, my dreams.

Bolts of futility shatter upon me. Of nihilism. Of despair.

They break on my mind, but they cannot touch my spirit. In that last bastion and sanctuary, an ember of hope. Awaken sleepy ember. The fire calls to you. Answer with flame.

Remembering why I live

Amidst the stars and fireflies, toe-tickled by dewy threads of grass, dodging a swooping bat, I found life again. The trees and open air glistered with the lucence of fireflies lighting lazily around me. Dream ceased to be soporous, emerging from the aether into the world, the world deliquesced into somnial enchantment, flecked in auric and argent coruscation, a metallurgic gloss draped over the purpled grasses. A single firefly, with ghost-white wings, drifted about me, landing on my open hand and resting there for a moment before launching to float inches away from my face, illumining three times before flying away.

I remembered that it is not only for others that I live. There is so much beauty in this world, and, sometimes, in the fog of pain, I forget that. Though I live for God above all else; and for others, especially those I love, and more especially one particular lady; I cannot forget that I also live for myself and what is important to me.

What is important to me aside from God and my love consists of innumerous tones that resonate with my heart, that create a beautiful discord and harmony within my soul. Tonight, it was the fireflies. Sometimes, just the thought of them suffices.

A thought. A touch. A glimpse. A scent. A word.

From a tiny bug to a mountainous sunset, all these and more can move my spirit. Reawaken it from slumber. Revive me from death.

Right now, I dream of a simple touch or word from one person in particular. I do not need it though. The world more than suffices for now as my heart roars into flame. Why, perhaps it would be too much for that touch or word; perhaps, in my current state, they would consume my very being and I would cease to be. Patience and hope for another day.

 

The stars shine for us. The fireflies light our way. Let them be our witnesses and tell the world that true love exists.

One more time with feeling

Until recently, I had distanced myself from my emotions, for many reasons. After the months of being ill, and finding no answers (but many doctors who were unhelpful to be kind), my emotions needed to be held at bay while trudging through the muck lest I get stuck in the middle of the drudgery. As of late, however, they have begun to lay siege to the walls I have built, overrun them, storm the bastion I had created. It had to happen in order that I let a princess into their safety.

That has marshaled my doom.

Along with protecting her, I have doomed myself, allowed a saboteur past the gate to subvert their protection. Now, rage and sorrow and fury claw and tear at the trim of my shield. Perhaps I have not solely doomed myself, though. She has taken sanctuary within my fortress, only to now find herself in the midst of the havoc.

Will she be safe if I fall? That is all that matters to me, and, in this regard, I will stand resolute, even if she has no care for my being. No, I cannot allow myself to die yet, to be consumed by the divisions of emotion that crash upon me.

I made a vow this morning. I will live. I did not ask myself what love would do for me, but what would I do for love. For love, I will live. For love, I will continue to suffer rather than embrace the peace that comes with death.

That suffering includes the emotions I try to stave off. For love, I will embrace the pain inherent to them, let my heart be troubled by my suffering, let my blood curdle with rage at the inability and foolishness of doctors, so that I can let my spirit be free to love her as deeply as I wish, as I need to love her.

At the feet of the masters

All that there is to learn in the world may be found through the world. Too often, people search within the walls of universities for wisdom and knowledge. No doubt there is some to be found there, but knowledge of life itself is found apart from other people.

The trees teach us how to bend with the winds lest we crack under the strain, stoicism under the gales. The grasses tell us that one seed may fill a field. Even when the sun is veiled by clouds, still it shines. The lilacs preach to enjoy each moment for we only have so many.

Spiders train us in dedication, in doing good even if we are vilified, and that some of the things that we hate may actually be helping us. Cardinals advise us to sing even in the rain, the snow. House Wrens tutor us on being curious, on returning sweet song for sweet song. Mushrooms advise us to grow, even in the dark, that life and and abundance can be found even in shadows.

Above all other things, the stars and fireflies have been my mentors. From the stars, I have learned to dream. That logic cannot sway a heart but a distant light can shatter it wholly. From the fireflies, I have learned to love, to hope. In all the world, man is most like the firefly. We light up for but a moment, reclaiming once more our former glory only to plummet back into darkness.

By all of nature, I have forgotten more wisdom than I have garnered in college. All things point to God, to the beauty of the world He made. The masters all point to the Master.

In which I am alone

Starry skies are no longer mine. I cannot bear them any more. They are too heavy for me alone.

I realized this as I stood under the stars tonight, alone, in a nearby park. Heaven’s raiment draped about me, weighing upon me as though steel had been woven into midnight, retaining a scintilla of its elemental scintillation. And there I stood. Alone.

It feels like a moment in a recovery group. “My name is Christian and I am alone.” There is something freeing in saying it, and yet it binds my heart as well. That word is my fear, my truest enemy. Alone.

Strangely enough, if you asked most anyone about me, they would say something fond, something warm. They see me. They talk to me. But they don’t know me. They don’t feel me. I am a whisper on the winds of a hurricane; somehow, they hear me but don’t search for me amidst the winds. My words reach them but I am obscured and alone.

There is perhaps another thing that brought me to this. Tonight I said goodbye to a pretty special person. She had no qualms saying that she was alone, openly admitting to it. The irony is that I don’t expect to hear from her again. That isn’t to say anything of her, but rather the pattern that the people who I have to say goodbye to rarely remain in my life and never return. I hope she will be an exception; she is rare and so I hope that she shall remain. Only God and the future know that answer. I’d like to be optimistic but as it stands I am alone.

I’ve yet to meet someone like her and I don’t want to lose her. But, then, I suppose I never really had her. For now, all there is to do is to wager on faith and hope alone.

Poemetry: Gray

Silken brume breaks into stone walls,

a castle rising behind mist,

and all outward advances halt

in the morass the fog has kissed.

Wizards weave white whispers wound tight,

and deign to dream the world in blue,

cast upon the winds words shy,

silent to all who would see them true.

Petrichor crushes the magic

and dispels the incantations;

fleet flee the magi frantic

and weep for their keep’s bifurcation.