the child

What happens to our child, our inner voice..
the inner idealistic pure soul that feels and cares and wonders at the beauty of it all..
the child who believes that it all matters and means something...
I know mine still lives in me,
buried deeply behind the concerns of daily life,
situationally obstructed from the everyday world..
protected i suppose from the darkness that our adult minds endure.
we hide.. shield and protect that purest bit of our inner child,
that crown jewel of our being..
that last bit of purity that is left of us..
knowing just how precious it truly is
but herein lies the tragedy;
we are killing it.. choking it out of existence
banishing it to a memory.
or worse, a forgotten memory
I am occasionally blessed by a moment which awakens that bit of me,
reminds me that it does all matter,
awakens my hardened adult heart from its crusted shell for a moment,
to revel however briefly in thoughts of beauty and the grandeur of life,
and the fantastic complexity of being.

Only in those moments do i feel truly alive..
and those moments so rarely come at all..

who knows?

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

An empty space inside of me

empty, hollow and aching

I never feel the joy anymore

time passes in slow agony

echoes of memories haunt me

still I persist and try to live

onward towards the great unknown

using pain to fuel the fires

living life as though it matters

does it?

fat fucking bastard

My life has thrown me a fair share of stress.
Perhaps more than a fair share.
Anyone who knows me knows this is true.
Once again however, I face a realization I've had before;
That my pain and stresses are self inflicted by way of my hopes or expectations, unfulfilled.
Damned Idealism..
It is said that the richest man in the world is the man without want.
I have at times succeeded in that effort, but I am not a monk, and my resolve wears thin..
And now I look at myself, what I am, what i have to offer..
..And i realize that the path i once chose has now chosen me..
I have become the fat fucking bastard I would once have ridiculed as a child.
I am the social misfit, the swirling mess of financial ruin, the old man who still thinks he's 20 years younger..
A joke, I am sure, in the eyes of some.
Fuck them.
Let them walk a mile.
I need a drink..

Happy Birthday Reed..

Today would have been your 24th birthday, a celebration of life, but because you are not here with us to celebrate it is also a day in which we wistfully remember who you were, who you could have become. Yours was a life lived well and fully in such short time, obviously touching so many lives, leaving your mark on this world.
It gives me pause to consider other hardships and put them in a larger perspective.. And having done that, life is so much more beautiful than it seemed just a moment ago.
Thank you for teaching me that.
Rest in Peace in the arms of the angels.

Fringe of Darkness

darkness
it is ever present.. creeping in the corners of my mind
slowly, silently, enveloping me
pulling me from the light
we have done this dance before
i have flirted with the darkness
dove into it
used it for my purposes
turned my back on it
but i have always known it is always there
sometimes i just want to stand
and let it come
wrap itself around me
like the comfort of an old blanket
the touch of a lover gone cold
the caustic embrace of an old burned out flame
but still..
it is an embrace..

Tragically Numb

life, like the flickering innocence of a child, is brief.. fragile..
tragically taken.. snuffed out before its time.
dearly missed by all who know its value
If we are all truly as one, then any loss of any one of us is a loss to all of us

Somehow, we have all become tragically numb to this fact, lest we carry the burden of loss for every soul.
Ignorance, it seems, is truly blissful..

Inner Music

Any romantic would know what I mean.. the musical flow to the feelings in our souls varies in mood and tempo, almost constantly. A concerto has never been so colorful as to express the depth and range that i have felt. I have known the pure blind raging hatred that could lay waste to civilizations but I don't allow myself to fall into that pit, that swirling vortex of destruction anymore.
I have known many versions of fantastic beauty, but some of it was an illusion created to manipulate me. An idealized image of a perfect soulmate. Seemingly kindred spirits, now estranged for no reason except that perhaps we were never kindred at all.
Once again I ponder the question; whether it is really better to know the joy (or the hope thereof) only to suffer the loss, or if it may be better to simply go without.. with no illusions of what might have been. The question vexes me, but the answer is truly simple. It is my joy and my pain which inspires me, that punctuate the perpetual night, and the inspiration spawns the written words that may some day be my legacy. They may be the one mark i leave on this world.
As contradictory as it may sound, i miss the punctuation.
The vibrant color and full spectrum of sound.
I am almost dead without it.