| "The guerdon of new childhood is repose: -- Once he has read the primer of right thought, A man may claim between two smithy strokes Beatitude enough to realize God's parallel completeness in the vague And incommensurable excellence That equitably uncreates itself And makes a whirlwind of the Universe." -- Edwin Arlington Robinson I have spent days furiously writing pros to make up for my absence in the two months I venture out to the unknown. Tarot readings, coffee grinds. I ching. Spades and Hearts... in an effort to find... I am living for tomorrow and wasting the present away. No satisfaction, no rhythm to anything I have ever written. There is always a piece missing that I desperately try to fill with a silver lining. If I could just get the last verse to penetrate me deep enough, I could stop wanting to reach the end of immanence. Even now, I find myself overwhelmed with this biting need to hit the note perfectly. To find the right word that would weave these feelings into something organic, yet somehow always ends up sounding intellectual. The urgency behind the need, the disappointment in never feeling quite in sync with anything. Until, for a moment I do. It never lasts long enough, does it? The space where we are left in thrall. And the enduring longing, relentless and selfish. For the desire to have it all. I give up. I have wasted myself in vain trying to time movements to perfection. If only I could will the world to work in my way, and even when it does, still we are wired to be unsatisfied. I cannot live like this anymore. I am hitting wall after wall, fighting my own reflection like a fool. I see what you want me to do. You bring me to my knees time and again, because I am stubborn and fiery and have never known passivity. And so you teach me to yield. Was this what the tears were for, the passing weeks of no control? There is something misaligned when I cannot even admit to myself what stirs beneath. All the while laughing, confused as to why eyes betray me and begin to cry. You show me amusingly, my life it seems is not my own. I go left, and end up right. I walk up, and find myself down. I feel like a pon on a chessboard, rejoicing and mourning the bitter truth: my life is not my own. I have given up trying to plan my future to perfection. To lead, when I am invited to follow. To speak where there is only room to listen. I feel bound by myself but also by you, this invincible current that I waste so much time fighting. Walking against the wind, swimming upstream and exhausting myself. I surrender. I have nothing else left to say. I will not force anything anymore. The results are always met with dissatisfaction anyway. Maybe in this lifetime I will learn to love this, what is sweeter than the inevitable surrender that spirit sways... Our only task is to trust, and be true. Still, we struggle the most with simplicity. Choosing instead to breed in the chaos of dormancy. Self-created and self-imposed. Please, liberate me. |
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