Samhain Night

I wonder how many people realise what they're really celebrating. The origins of this auspicious day where people dress up and hand out candy, carving faces into pumpkins. Do they know that it was once, long ago, a Celtic holiday ushering in the dark half of the year, and waving farewell to the time of abundance?

Fires were lit, masks were worn, the dead ancestors were welcomed into the home during this night when the veil was thinnest between this world and the Otherworld. Those evil spirits were kept away by the masks worn, a guise to warn them not to dare enter. It heralded the beginning of winter, the beginning of a new year; and what better way to begin the new year than to dine with ancestors you lost long ago? They called it Samhain.

Much of the beauty, the symbolism of this night has been lost, drowned by commercialism of the western world. But once, this was not only one of the holiest nights of the year, but one of the most beautiful.

While many frown upon it today, this tradition of the Celts, they forget that it is they who appallingly took over the holiday of the simple country people, uprooting it to an extent, then placing another holiday the day after, blessing all the saints. Ironic how those who are meant to love and accept are those who follow their rules the least.

But we remember. And as long we live, this will never die.

Possession of the Stars

I don't need to own the stars to be happy. I don't even need to touch them.

Did it ever occur to you that maybe my idea of happiness differs from yours?
You are lazy. You want everything to be easy without having worked for it, otherwise you would be living your life differently, you would be in a different place. Me, I don't care if it's hard. As long as I enjoy it, I am happy, and content and this is something that you may never even be lucky enough to experience.

Obviously it never occurred to you that there is enjoyment to be had by simply looking at the stars. Some things are ruined by possession.

The Heart of Home

Pack your bags, your little travel case covered with stickers, and embark on a journey to the ends of the earth. You always wanted to see wonders, curiosities, the unusual; beauty in all its glory. So go. The road can take you anywhere if only you dare travel it.

Remember to look back though, remember where you've been, where you came from. For all the awe inspired by the arches of the Eiffel Tower, or the sunsets over glorious beaches, or even the laughter in the yellow lights of downtown pubs, nothing will have a hold over you the way your home does. Remember when you leave, who is left behind. Home is where the heart is, and the further you go, the more you realise that your heart is with those who await your return.

The Things That Are Missed

It's been a long time since I put pencil to paper. I can't remember the last time I sat down for the purpose of creating something on a sheet of paper with nothing more than a pencil. I don't remember the last time I returned to simple black and white and shades of grey.

I miss the feel of the pencil in my grip, the way it scratches and glides across the paper. I miss the way that something so beautiful can be created with a few well placed lines and the addition of appropriate tone. Tonality is the secret to creating something worth looking at. I miss the last time I could stand back and look at something that came from the work of my very own hands, and proudly say "I drew that".

Catalyst

I fear being left with nothing but the shards of a shattered sky. This isn't where I wanted to be, who I wanted to be, nor is this the life I wanted to live. Viewing a broad spectrum of life, I saw that there were lifestyles which were wholly unattainable for me, some of which I wanted more than anything. Surely there can be lazy and romantic days, where the sun shines and the sky is blue, and even if there is no romance, there can be a certain joy in simply being?

Control is exercised only over the smallest of decisions. Thinking of the road ahead I do not see any change in the current situation and I fear that I will forever be overshadowed by those who cannot live themselves. My biggest fear is that I end up like them; having achieved nothing, drowning in the life in which they achieved nothing, and having no escape, doomed to carry on in the same way until the day they drop dead.

The very thought is a catalyst which kindles a fire within me, a quiet determination that I will not be like them. No, I am not who I want to be, and the world is not a perfect place, but it is the place we must deal with and people can always change who they are. We must be the change we wish to see in the world.

I keep thinking that it will happen, that I will be that change, that catalyst, once I am free and living. But maybe I should not be waiting for it to happen, but be making it happen. Otherwise who's to say when, or indeed if, we stop waiting and start living? We cannot thrive under dictatorship, and this may perhaps turn into a revolution, a civil war tearing apart a house. But no one said that change was a road without bloodshed. No one has ever changed their world without fighting for it.

Where The Moon Goes

Somewhere along the way, I became a student of night. Somewhere along the way, I learned to breathe and learn and live by the light of the dim stars, and the shining moon as it waxed and waned, shined full bright and disappeared. Perhaps because there was a certain quiet, or maybe because the bed seemed so lonely, and the sheets threatened to strangle me in their tangled hold. Or perhaps it was just because I found that I couldn't sleep either way.

By the incandescent light I have my papers, or my charcoal, or my canvas and I work, late, until my body cannot take anymore and I collapse into a tired heap amid those sheets, and my eyes, burning, shut in grateful sleep. Only in sleep do the clogs of my whirring mind grind to a halt, and those far deeper begin to stir, bringing forth strange dreams not to be recalled by the morning light which fights to break through the crimson curtains hiding me from the world.

In the night's quiet much can be accomplished, and I make the most of what I can, when I am not vexed by the temptation of the Spring sun. And I enjoy these sojourns with the moon. My vampiric existence has led me to build a rapport with the glowing beauty of the night, and perhaps, one night, when the crimson curtains have closed on the day once more, I shall be allowed to borrow the moon from her lofty perch and perhaps, if you are lucky, I shall present her as a gift to you. For, you see, there is a reason why the moon disappears on one night out of the month, and this is where she goes.

Reaching Divinity

I'm making a promise to you right now, that one day we shall live in the shadow of mountains, where the clouds obscure their peaks, and they perch on the edge of a vast lake, as blue as the summer sky. We'll have a waterfront house, and each day we shall wake to watch the sun rise.

We'll choose a place where there are no cars to poison the environment, and everyone gets around on bicycles, rollerblades and skateboards. We'll find a secret place to go when we want our peace, away from the confinement of our house, and there we shall stare at the peaks, pretending that we can reach out and touch them, and take the clouds in our hands. We'll get lost in our dreams of dreams.

Everyday we shall take out our kayaks and glide along the glass surface of the blue lake. When we tire we shall drift and lie back to observe the sky, and embrace the feeling of falling into the blue space. Up shall become down, and there, among the mountains and the water and the pine trees which guard the banks of the lake, we will live; a life like no other has ever known.

There we can be adventurers, and dreamers, and whatever else we wish to be. Perhaps that will be the closest we come to reaching divinity.

Behind Closed Doors

Sprawled carelessly on a bed, smothered by complete darkness, staring at a ceiling that isn't visible. You can't even form a thought in your fatigue induced haze. You wonder how you're going to get through today, you wonder how you'll get through tomorrow. You cannot recall what needs to be recalled in this state - you can barely remember your name.

Close the door, turn out the light, close the blinds, turn the curtains. Lie back with shut eyes and pray that sleep will take you. As soon as you try the fatigue vanishes and insomnia takes hold, and your eyes stay wide open against the darkness which presses upon them. They itch and burn and cry to be left alone in dark contentment, but the mind churns and whirls and thoughts dance across your consciousness, never allowing your eyes a moment's rest.

The black is supposed to help, but even where the sun doesn't shine, you are offered no relief, no release from the struggle to stay coherent. People pass back and forth, ignoring the unremarkable door which shields you from the day. It's not that people don't know what happens behind closed doors, it's that they don't even care to find out.

Moments For Ourselves

It's that time again, when our only desire is to escape from this life. To press the off button, so that we may have some time to recover again our sanity, our interests, our life which we'd forgotten. Instead we must resort to stolen moments amidst out daily lives, quiet times to simply be, without distraction, or worry, or obligation. Such moments are always followed by regret at having lost that time, but those are also the moments which we look back at with warmth; for in fact, they were not lost, they were well spent. All the stress which comes afterwards is worth those snatched moments of peace and tranquility.

We should not shield our eyes from the world, because it is in the world that all beauty exists. Nor should we mourn time which we spent on ourselves amidst the buzz of routine. Often it is better for those moments to have existed, than not. There is no escape in being blind to the passing of time, there is only disappointment at having let the time slip by without taking notice. Whatever we may do, we must not regret moments stolen from life, for ourselves.

Worthless

The only thing I can say thank you for, is teaching me how to love. Thank you for showing me that to love someone is to treat them the way you never treated me.

Don't worry, your grip which is trying to stunt my growth, it's working in some ways; the problem is that you don't see that I've mostly slipped from your fingers. You won't know I'm completely gone until I've disappeared and you open your hand to insult me again and realise that I'm no longer there.

It's funny how your family are the ones who hurt you the most. But don't worry; the one thing I refuse to do is cry myself to sleep over you. You're not worth it.

Girl and the Ship

She stands at the edge, looking out to the far horizon, so flat, so calm. Her bare feet are baptised by the gentle waves, lapping against the sandy shore. "Shh" they tell her as their white foam caresses and comforts, quieting the constant humming of her mind. Here she is allowed to be herself.

She walks into the water, it's coolness grasping her legs, her hips, her navel, and the way it moves around her makes her feel like she is rocking. Her hands, too tightly grasping the beautifully crafted little ship, dip into the water, steadying the ship against the current. It precariously balances on the peaks and the troughs, holding its own against the water which overwhelms it. She closes her eyes, scrunching the lids together as hard as she can, then slowly, reluctantly, she feels the wooden boat slip from her grip as her fingers unfurl from its sides.

For a moment, she stands there still, eyes shut against the sea, and the horizon and the azure sky. With that ship she sends her prayers, her hopes of escape. With the water swirling around her, she almost feels as though she is upon that ship, swaying as the waves rock it from side to side, and it rolls over one wave onto another.

Opening her eyes, she observes it for a moment. It has drifted from her. Again she prays that her salvation will come with the liberation of that little wooden boat. Then she turns, walks out of the water, up the sand and into the life she wanted to leave, never once looking back. She left her heart on that ship.

She doesn't see that moments later it washes up on the shore, its few minutes of sailing glory over. That poor girl; when will she realise that it was all just an illusion?

A New Serenade

We are merely particles in the space of the Universe; tiny atoms, floating around on this chunk of rock, sincerely thinking that there is nothing more important than ourselves. You try to show others what you're worth, that there is more to you than what may originally be ascertained. All the while, you are blinded to what others are trying to show you. But every so often someone does something miraculous, by looking past themselves and realising that there is someone who is more in need than they. We call these acts of kindness, but they are more akin to miracles.

Too often we are dragged from place to place, through conversations and through choices by our ego. There is something about the human race and its need to hide vulnerability, its need to never show a sign of weakness; we do not realise that weakness is what ties us all together - the common bond between all species.

Every so often we should let the guard down. We should let others recognise in us the things which scare them; we would find that we are drawn intimately closer, even without conscious thought. Unbelievably, but people fall in love with those who show weakness, because it is a reminder that there is something to be given, something that is needed. That vulnerability touches the darkest recesses of our hearts and compassion is drawn out, even from those who claim to have none. Yes, it is true, a person can fall in love with you simply because you cried.

This is the message that should be conveyed through songs and film and words. There is too much riding on the idea of a fairytale, when reality is not like that; and we all know it. It is time to inspire people, because there is such a lack of inspiring people in the world that it is disheartening; every person should be someone to another. You are, even if you don't know it.

Think: what could you do for another?
What could you do for yourself?
Sometimes we all need someone to lean on.

Distorted Time

Oh you poor thing, so quick to move on. You leave and try to forget all that you are leaving behind, but you take them with you, there is no doubt about it. You wanted to make the goodbye quick, but you couldn't tear yourself away. And now you're stuck, waiting until it finally ends.

It's amazing how sometimes a minute can drag on forever.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Tell me, what happens to the writer who cannot write?
The lover who cannot love?
The dreamer who cannot dream?
The traveller who cannot travel?

The sun which cannot burn?
The tide which cannot ebb?
The lightning which cannot strike?
The flowers which cannot bloom?

Is it not true that they will all simply return to that from whence they came?

Another Day, Cloudy Memory

There are volumes filled with incessant stream of consciousness, an outpouring of thoughts which skid and slide and sink into the surface of the paper upon which they are written. Half formed thoughts, scrawled sentences, single words; there is not a more comprehensive insight into a mind than those books. You would be able to build an entire psychological profile from those pages.

I fear that someone will read those journals one day; there is too much in them which would embarrass the writer. I could not face the truth written there, under the influence of various emotions; anguish, hope, fear, love, anger - all make their mark and leave traces. Snapshots of a time, a place, the people, the feelings.

Burning them seems to be the easy option, for it means they cannot be found, and yet, it also means that their contents will be lost. Are memories worthless enough to be burned? There may come a time where I would give anything to be able to remember those times, and feel a great sense of loss in discovering that in a moment of insecurity, I had destroyed the only record I had of them. I shall not walk away from them, but nor shall I leave them unguarded.

For, every entry points to one undeniable truth:

NYC

If you listen very carefully, sitting in a silence only you can create, you may be able to hear the heartbeat of the city. In the dome of light, beneath the night sky, intricate with intersecting streets, and buildings which almost touch the stars, there is a certain rhythm, a certain beat. Open yourself to it, because that is the way to experience the real city.

Out there, in among the concrete jungle, the passing of tin boxes and the flashing of neon lights, there is someone who is doing just as you are doing; listening. Straining to hear whether there is another out there like them. Perhaps they sit in the park coated white with snow, and perhaps their breath comes out as mist, and they shiver against the cold. Or perhaps they lounge beneath the trees in the fall, when the leaves turn fiery colours and then fall to blanket the ground. Whatever the case, they are there, listening just as you do.

They listen for you. They want to find you, the way you want to find them. Among the lights of the city, and its dark shadows you will meet, and you will know immediately; they are the person you hear in moments of silence. The city is big, it's loud, it's tough, you could go with years without it, and then return and never have enough. It's too busy, too crazy. But you know, sitting there on the shore of the Hudson that together, you and the person sitting beside you could take it by storm, because you know it's secret; you have heard its heartbeat.

Uncertainty and Clarity

I just had the craziest notion. What if you actually want me? Is it really too insane to think that perhaps you might? You know that I don't just pluck these ideas from the air, though you might argue that you've seen it flitting there before.

Questions you ask sometimes set off a cataclysmic chain of thoughts and they lead down paths I'd only briefly considered before; only briefly considered because I thought it was impossible, but what if it isn't? Sometimes things you say make me think that yes, there is something there; something deeper than the words, the looks, the brushes of your hand on my arm. I'd like to know whether there is.

See, I wasn't entirely truthful. I didn't lie, but I told only a half truth. Now it presses on my heart, heavily - the weight of a wet blanket which simply cannot be lifted. I confess, I was afraid; the fear that if I spoke the truth, you'd turn away, and the last I would see of you was your back as you disappeared into a future which didn't include me. To lose another friend, it was a risk too great to take. Forgive me.

We've all got our secrets, even the girl you thought would have nothing but an impeccable past has some darkness lurking there; sometimes the most unlikely of people suffer from a broken heart. I'm falling for you. Have fallen? I'm not so sure anymore. The feelings for you have always been a little strange, walking the borderline between the living and the shades; now walking in the light, now melding back behind the impenetrable barrier.

It's strange to say that I fell for you before I'd even realised, but experience has taught me that it usually takes the mind some time to comprehend the heart. I woke up from a dream one day and that was it, I knew. That was before her. With her around you faded to the background; but you are the very reason I believe that you can be in love with more than one person. Though, I suppose, I was never one for the idealistic belief in "The One" either, so perhaps I am no authority to go by.

She's gone now, and my thoughts have found their way back to you; and they're different from what they were with her. She meant the world to me, but not the way you do. It had always been awkward and difficult; it was comfortable in her arms, but it was never more than just that comfort. With you, it is easy, like slipping into a light, comfortable and well loved T-shirt; everything is comfortable, like we've known one another our whole lives. Not the case, of course, but for some reason, there is an understanding between us that I cannot fathom.

It is said that you must fall for the wrong one to recognise the right one, and perhaps this is one such case. I'm not sure. Uncertainty claws at my chest; if you could see the inside of my chest, you'd be able to see all the scars and all the wounds it has left, the gifts for a lonely wretch.

Well, pay no heed. It does not matter. Perhaps I am right, I wonder if I will ever find out, but I am not courageous enough to ask. I should like to let it go, and not think such things, for I believe that I make some of it up sometimes; perhaps yes, even pluck it from the air, proving that you indeed saw it flitting there. This is merely the work of an over analytical, and overly hopeful imagination. It is likely that there is only heartbreak here, nothing more.

I shall just go back to dreaming, shall I?

The Calm Before The Storm

Calm, cool and collected. That's the way to do things.

Even if no one's got faith in you.

Pulse

I'm rekindling the fire for my past loves. Slowly they are returning to me, greeting me the way someone greets an old friend whom they love but have not seen in many years. I feel as though I am finally returning to myself.

The timing is not the best, but who am I to turn them away when they knock so loudly and persistently at my door? You should always open your door to the things which will take you back to who you used to be; there is no other way of seeing how far you've come.

As I relish the feeling of the meeting, I realise something: these are the very things which course through my veins, which pump through my blood; these are the things I'm made of. My pulse.

Have A Little Faith

I feel like I've been pulled from orbit, away from a race that isn't towards anything, and down to here, where I have a higher purpose. They say that life is about finding yourself; I disagree, I believe life is about creating yourself, and that we are all here to forge the best person we can be from the person we are. I also believe that sometimes we need help.

Perhaps a glimpse into a lifetime where we were someone different would help us choose the things we think are the best for ourselves. Perhaps we need guidance, and they do say that spirit guides find you. Well perhaps as we try to enhance our spiritual awareness we should be in touch with those forces which guide us: ancestors, animals, angels, words of the lost. Sometimes, maybe they need a helping hand to find you, the way sometimes two people destined to meet need a push in the right direction. If only it were as easy as staring at the moon and whispering a prayer to the night breeze, willing it to take your words to those who were meant to hear them.

Trusting your intuition when it tells you that there will be a time, and a place when and where they will find you, you cannot help but be a little bit skeptical, a little bit impatient. Try not to be. They will come. Sometimes, you have to trust something you cannot see; have a little faith.

A Most Contented Sleep

You whiled away all your time, now you're feeling rushed. All those minutes wasted in the lead up to something important, you can never get them back. You know that you should not have spent all those hours on something that could have waited. Now you have nothing for all that time.

But you could not resist the sense of accomplishment that came with the ticking by of those minutes. Each one of them brought you the will to continue, because at the end, there was something to show, something more than what you would have had if you'd been doing what you ought. Although you swore that you would not spend so long doing it, you blinked and the hours had passed, night had fallen, and you had not begun what you had meant to.

It does not matter, the stress can be dealt with tomorrow, because today, something more important was learnt; a lesson about yourself. Today, you learnt that you dislike doing things unless you gain a sense of accomplishment by the end of it, and something to show for all the time you felt you wasted. And so, with that in mind, it shall be easy for you to fall into a deep and contented sleep. Tonight, you feel like you earned it.

Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted

John Lennon

Shall We Dance?

To do just one romantic thing in this lifetime, it would be enough. To spontaneously take your hand when you're least expecting it, pull you to your feet and into a dance, holding you close and promising to never let go.

We'd sway silently on the spot, because sometimes, words interfere. We wouldn't have to dance to the music, or any music at all, for we'd be creating our own, together in our little space away from the world. For just a moment, we'd be oblivious to anything or anyone but ourselves and one another, locked in a dance to music no one else can hear.

I'd rest my head on your shoulder and breathe your intoxicating smell, feel your warmth radiating from beneath your clothes; you'd wrap your arms around me and form a protective cage. When the music stops, we'll sigh contentedly and relax into one another, neither wanting to let go. We'll close our eyes for a moment, to savour the feeling, carving it deeply into our memories so that we might never forget. Then we'll part, and smile shyly at each other, intertwining our fingers and standing close. And it shall be perfect.

The only question which remains is: who are you? It's not there is a shortage of people to ask, but rather, that there are only a handful who would let me do such a thing, and even fewer still who would sink gently into love in such a way. I'm trying to find someone who's heart beats to the same rhythm as mine, who hears the same music as me, who will dance to the same song as I.

Is it you?

The Complicated Question Mark

This question haunts and shadows every thought which whirls through my mind. Sometimes, I am unaware of whether I want an answer, or depend on one for my existence. Other times, I am not so sure that I do want to know.

I hide my face quite often, for I do not want the world to know who I am. I sink into the mist of anonymity, and am quite sure that to a stranger, I have never been more than just another face on the street. It is disheartening to know that I have never been the person that people's eyes are drawn to, and that there hasn't been anyone whose gaze dances between me and the person they are having a conversation with. Or, perhaps there has been and I have been completely oblivious; why do we make it our prerogative to be so blind?

Nevermind.

I was important once to someone, and through the complicated fabric of decisions, words and looks, which took us in, scrunched us up, then spat us back out, we each got hurt. Now there are none and the blank slate we each had before has been marred. It is up to us to take those scars and turn them into something beautiful and meaningful. I learnt to never love with restrictions; it is up to me to implement that lesson in the next relationship which, if I am lucky, will occur.

The question mark is seared into my mind, no amount of meditation will make it disappear, for unresolved futures always haunt the mind. I suppose though, that the real question is not who will they be. The real question is, will I ever be able to replace the question mark with "myself"? Is any body ever really comfortable enough to do so?

Waiting For Too Long

 So I bound up all my thoughts and hopes and fears and dreams in a little volume, and they await the day where I flick through the yellowed pages and compare what I wanted with what I received. In some cases, it will be better. In other cases, much worse. But this is always the way with life; it is made up entirely of things you hoped for, and then the disappointments or elations of what you received.

Already, you know most of what I wish for, what I fear; I'm afraid that I have lost all my secrets, having revealed everything through my words. I have been cut, and pulled back the skin to expose to you all the very wound which bleeds and pains, and you could see all the layers of skin that it had taken to get through to finally draw blood. I have laid out my fears for all to see, perhaps stupidly, for it is possible that someone with ill intentions could play upon them, but it was better than having them haunt me in the dark. I have even shared with you my hopes.

I wonder sometimes, why it is that I take to this writing everyday, when most days I have nothing at all to say. I wonder why I do it, when I fear that I am boring and repetitious, depressing and occasionally uncouth; I have no particular talent with words. And then I wonder why people read. It is one thing for me to write all this, and quite another for someone to read it. I wonder what you think most of the time, whether you think anything at all. Most of all, I wonder why you bother. And then I return to "why do I bother?".

There are no answers to such questions. Some things simply are. But that is the reply of the lazy minded. Of course there are answers. There are always answers, always reasons. Perhaps the closest I have to an answer is this: "We hide because we want to be found, we walk away to see who will follow, we cry to see who will wipe away the tears, and we let our hearts get broken to see who will come and fix them."

It seems that I am waiting. Not for someone to see that something is wrong, because there is nothing wrong, in a sense. But I realise that I have come to depend on the existence of another for happiness and fulfilment, and that is the person I am waiting for. Of course I know that I should be proactive, seeking this person, creating opportunities for myself; living rather than existing. But I keep telling myself, I will when I get out into Life; the problem is, this is Life. And I am simply not living it. It is terrible to think that the only reason for this is because I am waiting.

It's also impossible to think that one person could be the sole keeper of my happiness, apart from myself. With this in mind, it is little wonder that no one has taken up the spot and rid my heart of its vacancy; it is too much pressure to be what someone needs you to be. That is why the very nature of a relationship is compromise; give and take, knowing how much to expect, and knowing when to give even when it is not asked for.

Perhaps I hope that someone somewhere will stumble across what I write here, and yet, still volunteer themselves to be that person, despite everything they have read. Because this is only a notch above my worst and definitely not my best. The real questions now are, how long must I wait? and will I even be fortunate enough to have someone walk up to me and tell me that they want to be the person who makes me happy?

Perhaps. If I am blessed.

The devout and the spiritual will point out that it has not happened because it was not meant to be, that I was not ready for it. The existentialist will say that it is because I was idle. I am caught between the two; in a void between two worlds which collide sporadically and violently. Yet I am myself, nothing more, nothing less, neither this side, nor that. I understand that one day there will be someone, I only cannot help thinking that "one day" is too far away.

Another Repetition of the Same Old Theme

We two sit at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the sunset, Loneliness and I. I cannot recall a time when I went looking for him, and yet, he has found me. The soft crashing of the waves against the cliff base covers the silence that falls between us, filling in those spaces between words. It is almost soothing, the sound of the water breaking over the rocks, so far below, leaving behind spray and white foam; to be lonely and content simultaneously, it would be a sort of undefined magic. Perhaps for the exceptional person, it is possible; but I am not exceptional.

Unconsenting, I sit there beside Loneliness, and he strokes my tender soul, his trained fingers finding all the flaws in the smooth façade I have created; all the roughness I have striven to forget. He won't let me forget those grooves, etched in so deep, no amount of sanding back over them could make them disappear.

Is it strange to miss a feeling you've never really felt? To miss a person you probably haven't met? Because sitting there beside Loneliness, that is what I feel. There are only so many times a blind person could wish that they could see, so many times a faithful person could pray to be saved, so many times an unloved person could hope to be loved. I'm afraid my wishes, prayers and hopes are becoming repetitious; there is yet no resolution in sight. The faith that an end to my blindness, faithlessness and loneliness might come, is fading, getting lost so quickly in among the shadows of those who have achieved contentment.

We measure our life in moments of love, our worthiness in the strength of its memory, so then, what happens to one who cannot take comfort in either? What hope is there for one who has had only Loneliness as companion for the duration of their life? Is there a hope?

We tell ourselves that one cannot be hidden in the shadow of Loneliness forever, and yet, there are those who have never known otherwise. To think that all shadows pass eventually is the folly of the naive; the wise know that there are no absolutes, no definites. Only luck. And not everyone is lucky. There are those who are unfortunate and see nothing but darkness their whole lives. Loneliness holds their hearts in his iron grip, and they may never free themselves, despite all struggle. With every day that passes, every minute that drags on, every second that ticks by, I cannot help but think that I am one of them.

You may try to convince me otherwise, but the truth is plain to see. Had it been any other way, this wouldn't be happening. Is that not true? If there was but one person in the world who loved me even a fraction of the amount I wished to be loved, that would be enough to take me from here, away from Loneliness, and his burning eyes that sear all the scared places within me, those which ask contemptuously how one like me even has a chance to be loved, afraid even as they ask that the answer is "there is no chance". But hope is persistent; tiny, but ever present, urging when there is nothing left. Yet I cannot say that I wish for love to be saved. Salvation is but a by product, a bonus to something which is already awe inspiring. 

Of course I am loved, as is every other being. But "friend" isn't "lover". Two fundamentally different types of love, which can exist together, the way a lover loves as both "lover" and "friend", but rarely, if ever, does "friend" do the same. One, we take somewhat for granted, the other we seek our entire lives; which is which depends on you, but I know which way they fall in my own life.

But no matter. There is nothing in these words for anyone other than myself. This too shall pass; the dreamers will be left to dream, the writers to write, the lovers to love. And the lonely to be lonely.

Balanced Days

Some days, you just know, aren't for creating, but appreciating. Those are the days you take, rather than give.

Freedom has a Meaning

To transcend this cage of life, that would be the ideal. There is no need for chains or bars, if you only learn how to let go. And it is time for you to let go. You do not want to acknowledge it as such, but you know it in your heart to be true. Your children are not for you to keep bound forever, for they were never really yours in the first place, but rather beings who you were charged to look after, who were in their own right supposed to enjoy a sense of freedom. They belong to the world and unto themselves, in the same way as you yourself.

Fly free, that is the goal; that has been the goal for humans since the dawn of time. Yet, we cannot seem to be able to let go of the ground. The truth is, we cannot fly. We may wish to grow wings, we may build planes to take us above the clouds, we leave behind our roots in search of something better, but in reality, we trap ourselves. Metaphorically, we are chained to the earth, we are bound to what we are taught. So metaphorically, we can fly. All it takes is looking at life with a different perspective. It may take us a long time to leave the comfort and familiarity of our families, some never do, but we can only taste true freedom if we take the chance to try the change, experience the unfamiliar.

You need to learn that children will walk away from you one day. They will return of course, the way that a bird will return to its roost after a long day, but if you don't let them leave, they cannot grow. And all life is growth. Growth is the seed of living.

So let them go. Watch them soar higher than you could have dreamed. Your job is to hold them up when they feel like they are going to crash and burn.

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

On Children, 

Kahlil Gibran

Last of the Wilds

 We've only been here for a short while, the lives we lead are borrowed, the places we conquer but fleeting. We too shall fade into oblivion one day, you understand. There shall one day rise a new species who reign victorious over the lands we left behind.

165 million years ago, those conquerors were the dinosaurs, roaming the earth, the lush jungles, the harsh terrain, devouring what they needed to and nothing more. Now it is we. But we are not as kind as those reptiles. By the time our reign ends, there will be nothing left of the wilderness; all that shall be remembered are the skeletons of trees, and the shells of mountains, for they will be taken over with metal and glass and plastic. Glass boxes stacked upon one another to provide shelter for those who once knew how live beneath nothing but the stars. It is a sad fate.

I feel like one of the Elders who look at the world and lament because it is not the way it used to be. The spirit within me feels ancient, connected to the leaves of oldest trees, and the roots of the mountains which stood strong during history's worst catastrophes, and it is as though my spirit cries out with those leaves and those mountains; as they feel themselves dying, I too feel that I am dying. In a sense I am; so are we all. We cannot see our own destruction until it is upon us.

An invocation of wise spirits, brought to being by song and fire, cannot help us now. Prayers to the lights which fall from the sky are inane, nothing can bring us the relief we need. So I'll take to treading the lonely shores of the Earth, where no footprints but mine have ever marred the sand, I, transformed into a being of wisdom and innocence by the Elder spirits, for they recognise me as one of their own, and then I shall walk along the banks of a frozen river also, weeping for the generations for whom snow will be but a legend.

In the end, I shall climb one of those high mountains, where the summit is graced by the sky's curtains of light, and from there I shall embark on a journey into a learning, into the astral plane of the ancient spirits who are wise, who look down upon their descendants and grieve for them. Together the spirits and I shall turn our backs on them all, for they have brought about their own perdition.We cannot sit and watch the inevitable destruction of the last of the wilds, for we are the last of the wilds.

Art of Painting

Let the paintbrush express what you feel inside. Take it up and let it rampage across the surface of a canvas. You may be surprised by what the colours reveal to you, what the image says about you. For, the sacred expression of the soul appears through those brushstrokes. Don't you ever doubt it. It will change the way you look at art. It will change the way you look at life.

An Unconventional Sign

I cannot see the reason any longer why we should sit and stare while life goes on. There are things to enjoy.
So enjoy them.

Throw back your head and howl with laughter. You'll realise then what life is all about.

In the Morning Darkness

I awake, the room is still dark, and the only sound is the soft ticking of my watch, counting down the minutes. I flip to my back and stare at the ornate ceiling, wondering how I could be awake at such an ungodly hour. I long for sleep, a rest which extends to my mind, all the while knowing that it will evade me resolutely. This is a scene which has repeated itself too often. 

To let the memory of you slip from my mind, the way water seeps through fingers, that is easy. But to chase you from my dreams - it is impossible. You have a habit of finding me when my guard is down the most, leaving me helpless to fight you. The conscious mind pretends to forget you, but the unconscious still clings to you tightly, letting you surface for air the only way it can; and so I meet with you night and night again in the realm of dreams. 

I wake every morning feeling as though I did not sleep at all. They say there is no rest for the wicked, but was I really so bad as to deserve this punishment? I emerge from those visions and I am tense, nervous, tired; the fatigue of someone who doesn't know how to fight anymore. The memory tugs at me, pulls and pushes, testing to see how much I can take, and in the darkness of the early mornings, amid the silence which presses down from every side, I must question whether they were dreams or visions, or glimpses at an alternate reality.

Please, I need to rest. Properly, not this restless state of half dream. If I dream, I want it to be of the wolves and the mountains, the bears and the rivers, the eagles and the clouds, not torturous visions of you, laughing, teasing, reminding. I can't go on seeing your face every time I close my eyes.