Desperation’s Sharpest Edges

 

The first moments returning from the depths of desperation are the scariest of all.

Like the one who can no longer feel the weight of the cool, balanced handle and so sheaths the knife’s pristine edges within his naked and steady hand, he wants believe that the worst has passed. Yet now he openly questions the loyalty of his own depraved heart.

So where is our next approach, where is the next breach, in a world where deception and grace equally abound?

Desperation, it is said, is built upon the lies of our past.

But if our history doesn’t speak to us of absolute freedom, neither does it hold us in eternal bondage. We are free to ditch the lies and free to expose life’s grandest deceptions.

And we are freer, still, to blunt desperation’s sharpest and deadliest edges.

Peace

Copyright 2019

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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Forbearance

 

Patience is such a lonely art.

The tangled imbalance of anxiety is a friendlier sort, pushing us back towards the people and the things that first carried us there. Where mindful disquiet will breach the deadly silence in our brains, true forbearance yet demands a forced stillness, an overpowering integrity of the soul. But neither is achievable through sheer flesh.

And mastery over our own transgressions is lonelier still, as vanity and shame tend to alternatively prevail. Leaving us little choice but to take refuge in the same false voices and imagined safe harbors that camouflage our distress.

Patience is indeed a lonely art. But one that still shapes and defines the very contours of our own humanity.

Peace

Copyright 2019

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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Game Plans

 

Sorting through the garbage, he found one that fit.

Sure, the coat was badly ripped and frayed and soiled, but it fit. And it seemed to retain, on some level, a touch of elegance that he hadn’t been exposed to in quite some time.

Besides, it was cold and he would gladly have stolen it even if it were only just crappy.

His mind traced back several steps and his imagination settled on the face of its previous owner. An executive, perhaps? No, a sales rep. Maybe a doctor or a lawyer. Was he still alive? And was today’s good fortune part of some family member’s attempt to move on – a wife throwing out memories that had left her exhausted? A son unconsciously trying to settle some generational score?

He decided that none of it mattered. Not really.

Whatever ambitious game plans that it may have played a part in, even in its final moments, have long since passed.

Now, only a single purpose remained for it.

Just like its new owner.

Peace

Copyright 2019

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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Name Something

 

The poets tell us that once you name something, you no longer truly possess it. As if the sun, soil, ego, even death, are things worthy enough to hold.

There is nothing coiled around our consciousness, nothing hard-wired within our brain, that can spare a moment’s relief from our own desperation and psychosis.

Yet love, unnamed and undeserved, is relentless in pursuit and unforgiving in its timing.

It unsettles everything.

Peace

Copyright 2019

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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(I Am Not A Rock)

 

Because I can still touch, I am not alone

(I am not a rock)

Because I can still love, I am not split

(I am not a rock)

Because I can still move, I have not grown putrid

(I am not a rock)

Because I can still think, I am always afraid

(I am not a rock)

 

Peace

Copyright 2019

Image Credit: Pixabay

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What Remains

 

Lately, I find myself running out of fear.

What once paralyzed me from the inside out now more often evokes emotions both sublime and ridiculous. Not that I’ve resolved every last irritating question or found some perfect way to ignore them.

But the impassioned inquisition of youth has softened into a spectator’s curiosity, as if the reckoning at game’s end measured only winners and losers and not the breach into oblivion.

I recognize now that as the body surrenders, so too must the questions. Practicality compels it, exhaustion demands it.

Mostly, though, I’ve grown satisfied that the years have been more friend than foe. And what remains is sufficient to throttle any lingering fears.

No matter its measure.

Peace

Copyright 2018

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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Familiar Love

 

The dangers of familiar love remain quite real, even when they are no longer so daringly obvious. Untold hours of questioning and denial still rise up to chastise a single moment’s harmony and honeyed laughter.

Yet every demand, every ultimatum that cajoles and restrains one of us seems, oddly enough, to drill down deeper in tandem. As if still searching for some sort of homeostasis between us.

But the mystery of our familiarity has long since been breached.

Even though we barely know ourselves.

Peace

Copyright 2018

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Questions

 

Symbols, signposts, and arrows.

What am I to make of them all? Is it love only that embraces me? Or is it, too, my own delusions and shame? Does there exist some ready plan of escape should I discover that there is no real difference between them? Would it matter if there were none?

For the lyrics always linger and the music never ends.

Peace

Copyright 2018

Image Credit: Pixabay

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Between Bedrock And Clouds

 

If I should reach out would you remember, still, the touch of my hand or perhaps the smell of my neck?

Such is intimacy.

At times both safe and ruinous. At once both familiar and queer.

Like a portrait capturing a single moment from a thousand brushstrokes, every story has led us here, to this time and to this place.

Every whispered word, every raucous pushback, has overtaken the one before. As if each moment were the only one to exist, forever.

Maybe it’s true.

Maybe this moment is the only one that ever really mattered to us. Standing somewhere, as we so often do, between bedrock and clouds.

Peace

Copyright 2018

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Traces And Shadows

 

Everywhere I look, there are traces and shadows.

Traces of the man I once was, shadows of the man I must one day leave behind.

But memories are often bitter frauds, plying us with regrets that were built solely upon mundane moments. Ones that distracted us through much of the day as we did our very best to cope.

And those second chances so often longed for? They’d likely have changed nothing at all.

Except, perhaps, which disappointments we might then harbor.

Traces and shadows, together, may well be our one true legacy. But neither will ever allow for a full accounting of the breadth and the depth and the weight of the self that once stormed the earth.

Even one with regrets.

Peace

Copyright 2018

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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