Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Birthdays and namedays and keepsakes



So many people have lost me and they haven't realised I am not there anymore.
They 've lost me because they are petty and jealous and ungrateful. They are worse than ungrateful actually; they try to harm me while I have only done them good. But that's humans for you.
Most of the time that I press on I have no idea why.
I've settled in a life of quiet desperation and all I do is count my blessings.
I still love. I still care. Or I pretend I do. When I caress my cats, half of the time I do it because I know they need it and I don't want to let them down.
But I am so tired.
Tired to my bones. Tired to my very soul.
Tiredness is combined with bouts of mania and desire, where I do one million things to avoid thinking. Or I download pictures from the internet and look at all those things, places, people I cannot have and get more depressed.
There are days I can see the world in all its ugliness, destruction and decomposition.
I see me for the disgusting sack of meat that I am, for the death waiting to happen, for the old age setting in, for wasted chances and potential and absolute lack of anything noteworthy. I think that if I was to die tomorrow, all that would be written on my tombstone would be, "she tried".  
Of course, we live in a society that success is not measured by effort, but achievement.
And there are days I look inside and it's so beautiful. Everything makes much more sense in there. Just next to the tower of abyss where my dark side is having one of her usual parties, there is so much beauty. I feel like a person deprived of speech that hosts paradise, and so I write, and write, and write, and pretty much nothing changes.
I just write. And then I read what I've written. And it's good, or I think it's good. And I pat myself on the back for it. Well done.
And I go back to my life of quiet desperation.
I wish I wasn't as strong and I had given up already.
I wish I was already dead.
And then my friend's words come to my mind, and she said to me, in one of her letters, we've crawled through every road in hell, and we never gave up.
And she said to me that all she has stayed back for are her rabbits, because she doesn't trust a single soul to take care of them. Don't laugh, that's as valid a reason as any.
I just wish I had given up already.
That's all.
But there are so many out there with less than I have.
And so I count my blessings and press on.

Saturday, November 09, 2013

Three nights ago


Tarot of The Old Path: Six of Swords, a barrier to travel removed.


Night departure

The city’s lights look like a jewellery box left open
Like a mirror for the constellations in human size
They swell and ebb, an ever-flowing river of possibility
And there too is the promise of immortality.

The wind around me blows like a caress
Like a transparent shawl of memories and conversations
The candle flickers in my hands
Unknown to all, I stand here, not lost, but found.

All those faces, now gone, all those chance meetings
None of it matters when I lay my head to rest  
Travels on the back of a book, or in person
All leading back to the same starting point.

If only I could once more feel
What is like to expect the future with eyes open wide
The worm of doubt is such a trustworthy companion
And yet the heart tugs, tugs and reminds.

The city sleeps. The city never truly sleeps.
The stars above and I below
Form one puzzle, one promise
And the gateway to immortality.