An Old Story

I am telling myself a story about the past. The story is true. The story is not true.

Daggers raked across my chest and my breathing stopped. It started again and my heart beat uncontrollably fast. I was dizzy. I was feeling so faint and light that I thought I would float away. My vision blurred and returned to normal. As I lost almost complete control of my physical body, my mind was consumed in my thoughts. I was in control of my mouth. I tightened it into a smile and spoke encouraging words. I don’t know what they were, but the smile didn’t reach my eyes. My hands were sweating. I spoke a lie. I was going to check something. I couldn’t think of a better lie.

I looked on the ground and found pieces of myself were scattered about the floor. Something was drip dropping from chest. Pieces of my heart? Or were they coming up through my throat. I had to get out. I had to get out. I am going to check something. I will be back. The latter was true. I didn’t want to come back, but I had to come back. I didn’t want to face this choking fear, but I had to come back. Before I came back, I had to leave. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here.

The dizziness was consuming. The stairs or the elevator? I couldn’t trust my legs. I could barely stand. The shaking seemed uncontrollable, but it may have been only in my mind. I thought my heart was going to explode, but it may have been only in my mind. I leaned against the elevator walls. Basement. I will go to the basement. I will sit with the ghosts who haunt the morgue that was no longer a morgue. I felt like a ghost. I was a ghost of myself, and I carried so many ghosts with me. I was reliving my university years. I relived multiple confrontations with multiple people. It seemed all of them were screaming the same thing:

Not good enough! Not good enough! Change your expectations! Change your behaviour! Look at yourself in the mirror! You’re not enough! You’ll never get this right! Everyone is talking about how you’ll never get this right! Nobody wants to talk with you! You don’t listen! You don’t understand!

I replied:

Shut up! Shut up! I don’t want to carry you around. I thought I was rid of you.

My hands were shaking. I had to have help. I knew that much. But who could I ask? I just needed to tell someone. I typed the story in jerking lines. I saw this. I read this. I am not okay. I am trying to be okay. I am shaking. I feel like vomiting. Everything in my stomach, in my chest, is too tight. I can’t vomit. I can’t talk. I can’t cry. I want to cry. I want to scream! Why me? WHY ME?

The ghosts still follow me. They escape in my envy. With every jealous thought that defies rejoicing, another ghost is born. It hangs on my back. It eats away at my body. It toys with my mind. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts. It hurts me so much that I must give that hurt away. I want to rake my daggers across a different chest. One that deserves it. Who deserves this pain? Why me?

I have tried. I will continue to try. But I want to ask How can I? It feels as though I have been wronged. There is no apology. I don’t want to forgive what can easily happen again. Where is the remorse? I don’t want to hear I’m sorry you’re alone. I want to hear I’m sorry I made you feel alone. I don’t want to hear I’m sorry you are hurt. I want to hear I’m sorry I hurt you.

Do I have a right to want these things? Do I have a right to ask for these things? Can someone make me feel alone if I am whole? If I am whole, can someone make me feel alone? Can someone hurt me, or can we only hurt ourselves? What is human, and what can I control? Am I a reactionary? Is it wrong? Or is it just hard not to be one? Is it an excuse? Is it forgivable?

The karmic perspective has been lost. There are too many questions. My mind is not clear. I know the answer is to meditate. The answer is to ask for help – not from humans but from spirit.

Must I ask for forgiveness? Or must I ask to forgive? I feel as though I cannot handle feeling this way another moment. I want to rejoice for the one who receives what I want, but I cannot bring myself to do it. I am insane. I am fully deluded. I count my flaws and I wish – how I wish! – I could be rid of them. Do I mean my wish? I think I do. I know I must meditate. I know I must not tell myself stories about my pain – past or present.

The stories feel true. The stories are not true.

I am tortured. I am suffering. The suffering is needless. The torture is self-inflicted. It would be so easy to stop the pain. It is so difficult to stop the pain. It is difficult doing what is right, even when what is right is simple, easy. I must cut the chains that threaten to pull me into the abyss. I must, instead, seek the wisdom in the place of emptiness. I must awaken from this nightmare. I must awaken from my dream state.

I will meditate.

I wish to be free.

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How it Feels to Miss You

I have gone on a trip
I made the plans, bought the tickets
I arrange the accommodations, facilities
No return date, but there is one.

Butterscotch sundae, sticky sweet, stomach ache
On Wednesday, Hump Day, steamrolled day,
forever stained sheets and shirts day,
carried in my bag – one a curse. It’s tears-day.

Missing is a scoop. A hole. An absence.
(Craves absinthe. Craves death.)
Missing isn’t action, but impact.
(Craves symbolism. Fucks regret.)

Carved. I am written with new stories,
more than utterances. These were words
and promises. They held weight but not water.
They were true. They are not true.

Nail clipping, stabbed through sock
ring-stained tub with purple walls
I cannot speak I cannot talk
choked by fervour, crushed by wrath.

Missing is the longing, the yearning
the searching, the dredging, the scouring.
(Oh how many things you’ll find,
but none is that which you seek.)

I am filled with oxymoron,
emphasis on feeling moronic.
Flip flopping and flying and diving
Aerobatic stunts pulled through lusting language.

Don’t stop this pain of endless rhetoric
round my mind and round it goes
a cyclical spiral of memory grows
–how the good times use to flow!

Missing is the angel from a nightmare
(an unsuspecting victim)
Missing is the webs from all the spiders
(and my indecision to call you)

A wondrous passionate feeling of lightness and happiness
that spread itself out between my shoulders across my chest
has been replaced by a pressing, pinching, tightening weight
that comes in a tidal wave with each reminder of loss

Any song that speaks of love shapes and heart beats
threatens me with a pain so deep and cutting
the only way I can survive is to focus on it
wholly and fully and thank the universe for giving

Missing is a rollercoaster ride with an unexpected turn
It’s repeating seven stages seven times and seven times again.
(Some days are so happy that I forget there has ever
been a moment of tragedy in life – how I love that!)

me an opportunity to radiate a strength I hate
remembering I have. For the threshold turns
upon itself and births a hurricane not disguised
gloom in a heart, scary to contain such dark places

I am confused by the simplest situations.
Why the warm bath water feels cold.
Why the best songs process painfully off key
How I am no longer anchored, officially come to form. Air.

Hard. Hot. Husky. Hushed. Voices. Whisper. Push. Shoved.
The game we played, all too often, not enough
Upward, Downward, Cold to Ice. Frozen Tundra
lacking Nice. But oh so beautiful and Vast. Untouched
landscape. Escaping Fast.

Missing you is remembering that I crea-
ted the moments of magic that I loved.
(You fit so perfectly I miss you too
but most of all I miss the me I was.)

So though I long for the return trip,
I don’t have the money nor the armor
nor the capacity to rise to the challenge
just yet, though I drool at the lips

Ripened peach, juicy squeeze
water flows, between your knees
from out your eyes, your poured-out heart
No tact and function, we’ve fucked the art.

Missing is a scoop. A hollow under my breast.
A tiny chip from my front tooth. A sunrise in the west.
Some days I feel I’ll miss you until my last breath.
But I can only miss you until your memory’s death.

I have gone on a trip.
I have made the plans, mapped the route.
I cannot stop moving; feel in constant pursuit.
I keep travelling this hard life if only to find truth.

Goodbye.
Goodbye.
I miss you.
I miss you.

The past breaks the future 

My heart is a stone
I lie in the arms of my lover unmoved
My heart is a cherry blossom
As it craves a sensual touch
My heart is a river wide
Drowning with tears, rising upon the banks
And flooding homes

My heart is a stone
As I lie untouched in my lover’s arms
It hardens with craving
And yearns to be spoiled

My heart is a leaky faucet
The bolts are loose and weak
It drips and drops rust coloured water
From pipes older than the house
They reside in

My heart has lived a thousand lives
It doesn’t know How to trust another
After all the war it’s witnessed
And pain it’s caused

Irreparable damage held together
With a duct tape heart
Frayed seams
Caulked valves
Antifreeze in my veins
So I am not ice

But I am rock
Hard as diamond
And yet pretty not
Reflecting light not
All for naught

My heart is a stone
I threw through the window
Of a young man’s house

And I am waiting for him to return it.

April Poem

I climbed up to where their eyes couldn’t see
A secret ledge on which to perch
Built into mud and over hung with rock
A cliff face to which I clung with care
One misstep and I’d be toast
But that did not deter me in the slightest
As I scrambled up the hill,
Building my muscles
with each push of my leg
and pull of my arm.
My abdomen activating
In support of my system.
I felt energized and exhausted
Confident and terrified
Thinking only of where
To put my foot next.
Thinking of the plan
Not the consequence.

And so here I sit,
With an eye on much of the forest below
The air is cooling get as the sky darkens
And winter chilled water drops slowly
Upon me from the river carved rock
There is so much sound around me
But it signals life and strength and courage
In the spite of all our ignorance and idiocy
Selfishness and greed.
The forest stands apart, even still,
Even after the atrocious rape we have
Committed and continue to commit.
Here I sit, apart and embraced from and by
Our odd world with its mysteries of
Meaning and or lack thereof.
Pondering and wondering and hoping and fearing. 

There are piles of scat all around me.
I think maybe a raccoon frequents here.
The raccoon has now appeared to me many times.
Along with the deer. And the red backed salamander. 
And I sit with the scat not wanting to leave.
For one, I fear that I may slip and fall to my death.
For another I fear I will have to go back to a regular dull life, unmagical existence enshrined within four walls with an agenda and a Neverending stream of tasks requiring the participation  in a society I wish to withdraw from.

Even here I am sure that the red jacket and blue jacket on the ground across the creek were watching my ascent and even Pondering how to do it themselves. Go away, I thought, annoyed that anyone should be privy to my adventurous (foolish) courage that led me to my vantage point.  But then there it is. Sometimes to go after what you want you must become vulnerable, exposed. Is it worth the risk? Are you more apt to slip? Clearly I perform well under the pressure.  But my real desire is to escape it all.

And so I return to my high volume quiet.
I dare not stay much longer as I start to feel the cold gnawing back into my bones and I know it will be still a climb to get out of here.
So I enjoy a few more moments of stillness
as I sit, an observer
Transparent eye in the forest
Withdraw from participation
And count the thoughts that bubble up
On a calm formless ocean
And disappear once more
Only an imprint left on a
Very subtle mind
Essentially forgotten
Until connection with the divine
Awakens your senses once more

This is the sublime. 

As water falls

Moments like these
teetering on the edge,
nearest to death
we feel most alive.
So easy to slip makes
our grip that much tighter
when hours ago, I could see
no point in carrying on
a powerful awakening
of all senses through
nature grounds me to
the here and now.
If I could live like this forever
I would not know sorrow,
only joy and nostalgia for
the sublime.
This feeling pressing upon my
chest, sending chills down
my sweaty spine
lends me a euphoria
no drug can mimic.
Let me lay my head near
the running river so I
may rest, alive, in peace.