Sunday, October 23, 2016

A son of Peter

I came here because the words were bubbling up inside and now they're just runaway wheels.  I fell asleep nine times before I woke up this morning.  The atmosphere I live in is so high above the ground that I can't seem to find myself anymore.  I listen for self-defining, not self-confining, lyrics and get lost in magical thinking.  My culture says, "No that's not allowed.  We will not permit you to be yourself."  Your culture says, "Here's the box we made for you.  Come crawl inside and fit the mold we carved out in our minds.  If you don't fit there's something wrong with you.  Don't question my assumptions; trust me, I know who you are."

A son of Peter cannot be an immigrant.  He cannot understand my story.  No, a son of Peter cannot speak for me; he hasn't lived my life.  No amount of books he's read will ever convince me that he is more than just a well read man of ignorance.
A purebred pale complexioned Caucasian is anything but complex.  If we're being scientific, he's not even Caucasian.  His green eyes, pale skin, and clean-shaven jaw may have been in for centuries but he isn't who he claims to be.  You may find him under a fig tree but don't trust the olive branch that he will offer you.
Politics say he's red.  History says he's right.  His pockets are never light.  He finds his satisfaction in others' plight.  Do. Not. Trust. Him.

So yes, to a small extent, I do know how you feel.  When you open your mouth only to close mine little pieces of my heart disappear.

Saturday, October 15, 2016

Trauma is a run-on sentence

It's like gently nodding off with a full stomach and a light heart in your beloved's arms on a train bound for Paradise and suddenly being forcefully awakened by a violent shiver piercing from your insides outward, only to slowly realize the only clothes you wear are darkness in a frozen Hell crowded by your fiercest foes and most profound fears.

Trauma is a run-on sentence that's always on the move.  We insert pauses, semicolons, periods, and commas.  We vigorously try to erase words and fragments or add proper punctuation, but the marks remain, the paper tears, and the whiteout leaves us emptier than before.  Our Stockholm syndrome runs back to hug the cactus.  We introduce it to our friends and neighbors and feel their eyes on our souls as we whisper sweet nothings to the plant that somehow thrives in a barren land.

We try to fall asleep but can only fall apart.  We paint over the feelings and convince ourselves they are accurate representations of our own failings and then silently lament over why no one wants to see the original coat and color.  "Look what I've done," we smile proudly; and when they compliment our fa├žade, our structural integrity trembles silently, "why can't they see me?"

When you insert your story do you take away mine?  When you tell me everything's okay, do you mean to soak my scars with tears and lime?

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Cleansing Fire for a Deceptive Heart

Deep in the furnace passed the places where desire deceives us there is a flame that burns freely.  A flame that burns selfish ambition away and leaves nothing but freedom and obedience.  It is a place where pain is temporary discipline and love is sincerely true.

I fall into deep despair and find it difficult to regain my footing.  There are mines all around you and they so closely surround you that if I do not fall for you I simply explode into countless pieces.  I find myself looking down and not being able to take my eyes away.  My heart deceives me in the most uncomfortably pleasant way.  I dream of faces attached to fingers and search for specific words that seem to only be clouding the map in front of me, if it's even a map at all.

I don't let you say a word because I have already chosen them for you.  I don't want to choose them for you but my heart has its way and it's deception feels so right and still somehow I know it's wrong. You can dance in a cemetery but that doesn't change the fact that you are surrounded by death.  You can play a joyful tune through your headphones in a desert, but will not cure your thirst or call for welcome company.  Batteries die.  Flesh fades and wrinkles.  Eyes swell, droop, and become dazed in a blur.

These jigsaw puzzle pieces do not fit in the empty spaces.  They will not turn the key that opens the door to logos and Paradise.  These pieces don't hearken back to the times in the Garden when we walked together.  Quite conversely they resurrect the serpent's whispers.  The deceiver has deceived you and as you attempt to argue in protest you just prove to us that you're buried deep in his lies.

Still.
       Somehow.
                       The.
                             Fire.
                                   Is.
                                      Sufficient.

                       &.
Still.
       Somehow.
                       It.
                          Burns.
                                   You.
                                          Clean.