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.

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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.

Poemetry: Untouched

A book unknown, yet to read yourself;

words writ not by pencil but pen.

Pages untouched bear no bend

and stow soot and space on the shelf.

The dim and dust veiled your label,

left by men of miserable taste.

I drew you from your holding case,

placed you on a nearby table,

and read every tale and fable.

My heart halted with each comma,

and we wedded with each hyphen,

as I touched each untyped trauma

of whispered verses reviving.

Leave me to  stand your sheets as I

inscribe love across your wrists,

faith and troth upon your spine,

and tell you you deserve to exist.

Soon the scars no longer seen

will fade with your faux gold lining.

Free yourself from your bindings,

flee with me from this library,

and let us build our own study.

Out of reach

It has been over a year since I wrote, or even felt like writing, this much. Which is a wonderful thing. Yet… yet, somehow I am unable to touch my emotions.

Maybe it just feels like that. But, it is almost like being a child again. As a child, the clouds seem so close, and you reach out and try to grab them, but they glide by, missing your fingertips by inches. That is how I feel with my emotions. I can see them. They float just past my fingertips. But I can’t quite reach.

Only the slightest clatter of loneliness badgers my heart. Only the slightest tremor for a girl I care about immensely. Only the whisper of a soul.

That is perhaps better than it has been, and I’m prone to thinking that the prolonged illness, and emotional pain that attaches itself to it, has left me burnt out. As rest creeps over me, as wellness spreads within my body, perhaps it is that my emotions, and the depth they give my writing, are sprouting anew, threading the holes torn by suffering and choking the leaks dry.

I am unsure if it may also be that, resultant of the suffering, I have simply acclimated myself to disassociation. To keeping my feelings far from reach for self-preservation. What I am sure of, however, is that I must find a way back to them. To hear the whispers as cacophonies, ringing in my ears as the sound tears away the silence about me. Peals rumble in the distance, expanding to fill the space between. Soon. Soon, it will return to me, and, oh, how my heart will tremble when it collides with the beautiful woman who stands before me.

Poemetry: Call Me Nothing

Through the years, my name has changed,

though the font has remained the same.

Handles and labels and appellations

have loved me and left me, cast me to damnation.

I bid you to heed one adjuration:

by letters lost and sandy scripts,

forbid these from your tongue and lips,

and forget epithets of lore:

call me Nothing if not Yours.