Thoughts from a past life...again!

When I lived in Oregon, I worked in the Sporting Goods/Fitness section of Sears...looking back, that was probably the best job I ever had. It was little bit boring...I had a ton of time to just sit and think and write.
Today, I was going through my trunk, looking for something (okay, okay, it was wart remover...) and I came across this piece of paper, written on the back of a Lawn and Garden rebate form. In case anyone was wondering, I wrote this while standing on a Proform A something something treadmill...it cost about $799 and was my favorite spot to stand in the whole department. I could lean against the hand rails and watch everyone in the L&G and Tools departments....good times...even if I didn't know it then.

It is the image that becomes the biggest chore. Overcoming the enigma of life and breaking through to the core of the situation. It's getting to the intuition; the feeling; the heart. I often think that it isn't the situation that matters so much--the who, the what, the when, the where, the why--but the voice that follows it. The name will be reused. The spot recycled--the words twisted and turned in memory's eye. But the feeling will be unique. The feeling that come in the dream was so real--so comforting--so much its own feeling...and yet, it was only a dream. Dreams come and go--intangible--an image which becomes a chore to overcome. Because a dream is not simply a whisper. It's the reality of unique feeling breaking through to life's most deviating, most changing surface--the conscience.

__________

But what of the brave?
What of the lowly of heart?
Dust to dust and
Ashes to ashes--
Their hearts remain.
Enduring through the
Centuries they are more
than just words in stories--
they are the encompassment
of life.

_________

We all have a past--eventually it catches up with us in this game of cat and mouse. In those moments we become our worst enemies are the moments when it is displayed before the world.

Midnight's fingers massage my mind, stroke my ego and enlarge my heart while sunlight's arm protects my conscience, quickens my feet and gives my soul relief.

In a world where grey is bright
And birds sound their metallic cries
Against the harsh, mechanical elements
I lay my troubled head
And wait for stillness to roll its waves of
Silk donned silence and comfort.
Where voices that need no ears to hear
and songs that melody robs
Ensnare my life's flame
As their ever-lasting captive
And coon the luxury of sleep and peace.
Until once again silence is cheated its contentment
And frustrated with the strange reality that is life.
Here I find my comfort.
Here I find my rest.

The blue eyes
that burn
with the tears that
won't come.
That can't come.
The tears that
will come
exactly when
they shouldn't.

The heart that
breaks with
pressure's despair
That squeezes
and groans
when it doesn't know
the song that
it should sing

The sodden mind
that wanders
between worlds
flitting from reality
to reality
Never quite knowing
where to settle.

The arms that
reach to a love
that they don't hold.
That they
can't hold.
That they won't
hold until it's
too late.

The indecisive,
unknowingly weak
spirit that lets it
all happen.

Is it a lie to say I know myself? Decite to say I'm sure? Who is the child behind these sad, dull eyes? I used to know her well--when spring was more than a fantasy and life a cause to smile. What is it about her now that causes such self destruction? Why the facade to hide the monster? Why the monster to hide the chill? Why the chill to soothe the bleeding heart? When it thaws, will I die?--Be found bleeding for all to see? Vulnerable? Or will I once again be able to say that I know myself for sure? Is that what it takes to make the lie a truth?
Perhaps the child behind the eyes is only a memory, and what has replaced her is Now's reality. Perhaps Now sees her only as a tool to keep me motivated.
Can you trick the present? Can you get to the past? What if I find her again? Will she be mine? Will she be me? How will I know?

Doors.

Doors are an interesting thought.
They open. They close.
They mark the beginning and the end--they are a transition.
They are a barrier against a storm or a portal to the day.
They hide our most private selves and open up our deepest imaginations.
By closing a door you section off an existance. By opening, you share that state with the world.

Clarity

I wonder why we don't always see the world with clarity. I try. I'll look around, study an object, feel a surface, strain against its fibers and tissues and being--but sometimes the beauty and the poetry of it really just isn't there. Does a heart which is afraid to created a connection cause this? Is it an illusion? Or is the poetry really just lost sometimes?
Perhaps the blurr is a defense mechanism? But what am I defending myself from? Is defense needed from colors and textures? Will the sharp edges of vision's majesty cut through my soul? Or will it break through the bondage that I am in? Will it finally release me from this space in which I find myself trapped? What if clarity is a view into a completely new and separate world? How can I open that door?
My moment of most clarity came to me today as I was cutting potatoes. The knife in my right hand, the potato in the left. Maybe that's it? Perhaps clarity comes at a point of change--a point when one object--a whole potato--becomes something else--dinner. :)