The love of bare November days

I love this scene. The fleeting days when leaves like flames and gold dust scatter along the ground, where breathing in the Georgia air does not feel like a tourniquette clamped around your chest, where everything seems just a little more free and a little more alive.

There is something in these days which captivates the mind and allures the spirit; I cannot exactly explain what work these November days does in people, but I can say that I see it everywhere. I cannot recall ever meeting a person who would not admit to having some sort of love for the fall--even though the daylight hours grow shorter, even though the temperature is dropping, even though the falling leaves create a mess that many people insist on trying to "clean up" (not seeing, I suppose, the futility that I see in trying to counteract nature's instinctive and inevitable cycles). How many people get out during the autumn months, to go for a jog early in the morning, to attend fall festivals and corn mazes, to go for hikes, to do yard work, or just to get a breath of the fresh crisp air?

So many artists find the need to express their feelings about this time of the year--particularly writers, as I have observed. I cannot begin to enumerate the poems I have read which center around fall, the stories whose autumn settings do so much more than merely showcase the physical wonders of the season but connect them to the depths of the human soul. And even though it has been written about to the point of triteness, I still find this magnetic pull toward writing about autumn, and the things that it makes me think and feel. I have talked to countless other writers who have said the same thing; one girl said it best when she was explaining to me how she had come to write a poem about autumn and said, "I just couldn't not write about it."

Why is that? Why are we unable to not write about this season? Even though so much of it has been expressed before, why do we still feel compelled to express it again, in our own way?


I think that autumn presents a challenge to writers, because it does evoke something deep within us that we have a difficult time expressing. As someone who continually strives for mastery of verbal expression, I find myself constantly drawn to attempt to express the things which are so challenging to express, the things which are inexpressible. The things which are so beautiful and so complex because they are so simple and so natural, yet at the same time so inextricably tied to my heart that my mind has a difficult time sorting out those ties and composing a verbal arrangement of the sway they have over every detail of my life. I think that visually, metaphorically, spiritually, and on any other level you can imagine, autumn brings out a heightened sense of awareness and contemplation. It always represents a challenge to me, because I feel there is still so much that has been unsaid about the profound and symbolic beauty of the fall.

I know there is much that will never be said, can never be said. The most precious thoughts and feelings to me are the ones that are inexpressible, incomprehensible. I think that is something which is very dear to a writer; it means that there is something that I cannot master, something which I must be content to hold in humble reverence. It means there is a place in the human spirit to which I cannot lead others--to experience it, to know it, one must search and find it for oneself. I always say that I feel more alive during the fall than during any other time of the year. This, I think, gets at the heart of why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
the love of bare November days...
(Robert Frost, "My November Guest")

4 November 2008

I was sitting on my living room couch last night, my television set tuned in but muted, as the poll results were coming in. I knew the next president of the United States would be decided soon, and I was ready for the answer... though I knew that the results would not be solidified until late into the night, even perhaps during the early hours of the morning.

I was writing my novel. It was about eleven o'clock at night, and I was deeply involved in some serious character development--when I happened to glance up at my silent television set. I was not ready for what I saw. It was too early in the evening for the results to be definitive; more than that, though, I was not mentally prepared to process the gravity of what had occurred. But there, as plain and authoritative as anything, was a smiling picture of Barack Obama against a blue backdrop, and underneath in regal white letters: "44th President Of The United States."

Of course, I had voted for Obama. In my mind, he was the only choice. Given the national and global state of affairs--a devastating economic crisis, a war nearly as unpopular as Vietnam being waged for all the wrong reasons, a climate undergoing utter destruction, low morale at home and little esteem abroad--I could not have considered voting otherwise. I don't love Obama and I never have, but when all was laid out on the table, I felt very strongly that Obama was the one who had the ability to bring about the hope that America so desperately needs.

I truly felt that Obama would win this election. Nothing could have prepared me, however, for the landslide victory with which he swept across the country. I was sure that it would be a close race, and that people all across the nation would be hovering around their televisions for hours, awaiting the poll results from every precinct, every state, which would be the deciding voices in this race. But when Florida was called in his favor, the race was over--and yet the results still kept coming, until he reached some 338 electoral votes, far more than the 270 he needed to seal his victory.

But what ended up hitting me even harder than his decisive win was the realization that history was made that night. For this man to be elected to the highest office in the land--this black man, this Barack Obama--something must have truly shifted in the minds of the American people. I think the reason his candidacy and ultimately his election did not strike me as inherently historical at first was that, in my mind, it was never about race. It was about the hope that he offered for a more peaceful future, for great social leaps, restored relationships with other nations (whether free or still entwined in systems of oppressive government). It was not about electing the first black president. The question of whether America was ready to elect a black president never registered to me; the only question in my mind was whether America was ready for change.

And America is ready for that change. That, to me, is the beauty of what happened on 4 November 2008. America judged this man not by the color of his skin but by the content of his character--and it was so seamless that I very nearly missed the historical significance. Yet the significance is obvious. Americans came together and accomplished something that many people never would have thought possible only a handful of decades ago. They came together in record numbers from every background, every socioeconomic status, every faith, the elderly and the young generations and everyone in between, and they said that they had had enough. Just when I was becoming disillusioned with who we are and what we as a nation stand for, America stood up and declared that it is strong, it is eager, and it is ready to overcome a divided history and look toward a united future.

I have much more to say, but I will have to say it another time. Let me just wrap up my initial thoughts on the election by saying that the struggle America is facing is far from over. One man cannot bring about the changes that we need to see, nor can an entire body of elected officials. Only a nation can change a nation--only we, the American people, can effect the change. I am so thankful that our next president will be a man who can inspire hope for this country, because hope is the first step. But once we grasp the hope and the possibility of all that is opened up to us, it is our decision. My decision. Your decision. I have been so hesitant throughout this election season to rally behind one candidate or the other, because I feel so strongly that it would be a very easy trap to fall into, that we would elect our next president, our next Congress, and then become complacent once again. My hope and my prayer is that this will not happen--because if it does, then we will have very little to show for a moment in our nation's life which could have been a great opportunity to really change the course of history. America needs us now, more than ever. I hope we are ready to respond.

All I Really Want...

I've been listening to a lot of Bob Dylan these days. Something about his lyrics really resonates with me--in his prime, he had a way of cutting right to the heart of all the things that were (and still are) wrong with the world.

Take the following lyrics. This song appeared on his 1964 album, Another Side of Bob Dylan. It speaks deeply to me, showing me that the same problems I run into with interpersonal relationships have existed for quite some time... and also helping me realize that I am not the only person who has been frustrated or disgusted by all the meaningless undercurrents that lead us down dead-end streets along the roads that could lead to truly great personal connections. We miss out on so much because we cannot just let go of our differences and give one another the benefit of the doubt.

Take it away, Bob.

All I Really Want To Do

I ain't looking to compete with you,
beat or cheat or mistreat you,
simplify you, classify you,
deny, defy, or crucify you.
All I really want to do
is, baby, be friends with you.

No, and I ain't looking to fight with you,
frighten you or uptighten you,
drag you down or drain you down,
chain you down or bring you down.
All I really want to do
is, baby, be friends with you.

I ain't looking to block you up,
shock or knock or lock you up,
analyze you, categorize you,
finalize you, or advertise you.
All I really want to do
is, baby, be friends with you.

I don't want to straight-face you,
race or chase you, track or trace you,
or disgrace you or displace you
or define you or confine you.
All I really want to do
is, baby, be friends with you.

I don't want to meet your kin,
make you spin, or do you in,
or select you or dissect you,
or inspect you or reject you.
All I really want to do
is, baby, be friends with you.

I don't want to fake you out,
take or shake or forsake you out.
I ain't looking for you to feel like me,
see like me, or be like me.
All I really want to do
is, baby, be friends with you.

Breaking point

Right outside of my apartment there is this tall, skinny, awkward tree that grows up right in the little nook where the two adjoining buildings opposite mine meet at a right angle. It is an unobtrusive corner, walled in by spiny hedges all around. There are strings of ivy creeping up the building, even right over the window-shutters. And standing only inches away from those tucked-away walls is this tree--perhaps a birch, though it is hard to tell from where I sit and observe her. But her scrawny limbs sag just slightly, as if the leaves which are her lot in life are just a bit too heavy. She strains, not wishing for anyone to learn of her secret weakness, to lift those limbs with a sort of dignified grace. But at the very ends her limbs droop, only just--discrete but unmistakable.

I like to sit out upon my porch in the evenings and look on while she stands there, quiet and proud, even in her odd place in the world. On still, tranquil summer nights she would stand motionless, statuesque. As the thin ribbon of light in the blue-gray sky would descend lower and lower, her limbs would become entangled deeper and deeper with the darkness. Yet she always remains unmoving, watchful, attentive.

Her name is Eleanor, this tree, and she and I are kindred spirits in some ways. Both of us know something of isolation, of not really fitting into the hole that has been made for us. Both of us are strong, strong enough to stand against many storms and face the aftermath with some reservoir of grace that we are able to find within ourselves. Both of us, Eleanor and I, stand before the world proud of who we are, even when the winds of adversity threaten to tear us from the ground. And the world doesn't see what goes on inside.

But all creatures have a breaking point. Eleanor and I are no different, though our breaking points have not been identified yet. I have come dangerously close to breaking, but I have not broken. Some days the world seems heavier than other days; some days I droop a little more, betray a little more of the screaming, trembling little child who lives inside of me--the side of me that I don't let anyone see, the side that stings my heart knowingly whenever someone tells me how strong, how resilient I am. The weakness in my heart knows that the strength is just a front I put up for the benefit of the world, the world where I am supposed to be strong, because people would rather not have to deal with the weakness of their fellow human creatures.

We're going to be alright, Eleanor and me. Life is a hell of a thing to be charged with, day in and day out, and it is a wonder that any of us on this earth can make it. But somehow we do. And we come out alright. If we don't break first.

A Boy's Will

I think, once all is taken into account, my favorite poet is Robert Frost. His connection to nature, and the metaphors which he so eloquently draws, are familiar to me. Few people understand my take on the world, but when I read his poems that are so richly laden with beautiful language and imagery, I feel assured that someone, somewhere, has understood the things that I see all around me. His words remind me that everything is lovely in some way--even sorrow, even grief--and that is a comforting thing, because the world is filled with sorrow and grief, yet its loveliness remains.

One of my favorite poems was published in Frost's first published book of poetry, A Boy's Will. Here on the first of November, I find this poem quite appropriate in so many ways.

My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walked the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Atlas Fallen

I watched you hoist the world above your head
and make them all retreat in holy dread.
Hero in a world fallen far from grace,
martyr for those who've been frozen in place
and handed to the whims of great unrest--
a savior's role you played, and played your best.
But 'neath such weight you were bound to crumble--
never too infallible to stumble.
And as the fateful wind sliced cleanly through
and whispered of the pains reserved for you
your body buckled 'neath a timeless dread;
as I looked on, the world crashed 'round your head.

Rain

I wrote the following several weeks ago, as I lay in my bed late one night, listening to the rain. Times have been up and down lately for me. I guess that could probably be said for most everyone, most of the time. Still, it's comforting to remember that some things in this life are constant. Amid all this madness, we all need to find our safe haven... like rain on a summer night.

The rain is sort of peaceful and lonely tonight. Peaceful, because it is steady and soft and life-giving. Lonely, I think, because it haunts me--because it brings to mind traces of other days, days that were happier, more carefree... and some days that were uneventful or lonesome or painful. Other days. Days which are not this day. Days which are not this day are days that are already behind me, or else they are days which have yet to unfold beneath my feet. One way or another, I am not in the midst of living them and suffering them today.

But the rain also tells me that I am strong. Because the rain comes and goes... and to experience anything coming and going as the rain comes and goes, one must be alive for a span of time. To be old enough to recollect many of those comings and goings means that one must have been alive long enough to grow that old. One must have opened one's eyes to many, many new days. And to continue day after day to open one's eyes and blink into the harsh, punishing daylight, to stumble through each hour perhaps without direction, perhaps even wondering if all paths do not lead to nowhere--to survive this means surely that one is equipped to survive. Though one may feel insignificant, ill, the weakest being on earth, one may and ought to take solace in the mere condition of continuing to live, because it means that one is inherently strong enough to live. None of us are very strong, it is true... but neither is any of us condemned to be prohibitively weak. All humanity is strong enough, barring physical disease or deformity or deprivation, to get up out of the bed another day and move and breathe within the circles of fire and earth and life. We are created with the mechanism to stand and bear living's pain and oppression--not always with dignity, but to bear it nonetheless... to continue to draw breath though it crushes our chest and rips through us like a thin red flame, to cry out for help even when our throat is cracked and raw from the heaving, choking sobs that we have cried in our loneliness and fear... and to lie down to sleep at night in anticipation or dread of what tomorrow's sunlight will illuminate before us and within us. That is real strength. That is the unfettered and untainted beauty of the human spirit.

When the rain comes, it washes everything and sets all it touches back upon the road to health and growth. It soothes a feverish earth and brings comfort to a troubled spirit. Tonight it works these effects in my own heart. And even now, as my eyelids droop and my consciousness rolls in and out like the ocean tide, I know that I will wake up in the morning and have the wherewithal to exist tomorrow--and exist well. Exist as I am meant to.

Sometimes every spirit needs to feel the rainstorm.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

I recently read a novel written by Georgia author Terry Kay, entitled To Dance With The White Dog. It was a fascinating read for me on several levels--on the very surface because it was set in the lovely rural landscape of northeast Georgia of which I am so fond. But deeper than that, it was a lovely story which was at once moving, charming, simple, and universally relevant. I think the primary reason this story has stuck with me is that it spoke heavily to perhaps my deepest fear... aging.

I do not really fear my own death. In fact, I try to live in such a way that every moment becomes vital and sacred--so that if any given beat of my heart became the last one, then I could leave this world having lived a life that was not wasted, that was significant and lived to its fullest capacity. I need no reminder of my own mortality; I am well aware that life is immensely fragile, hanging from a silky strand of spider-thread. A life lived in fear of death is lived in futility, and I refuse to let my limited allotment of moments succumb to such fruitlessness.

What I do fear, however, is almost equally as inevitable as death--and that is growing older. Losing capacities I once had; the dulling of my senses; the slow degeneration of my physical being or, worse, of my mind; watching the world changing all around me and knowing that my time has come and gone; continuing to hold onto that fragile thread that suspends me in a state of vitality as it grows more and more ragged, as all around me I watch those threads snapping and my family and friends, one by one, falling into that which lies beyond life on earth. Being left alone here in the world, alone with the ghosts of my youth and my familiar world, which will have long since passed on. These are the thoughts that I cannot stand. These scenarios represent the reality I see in my elderly family members and acquaintances, who through the years have lost their mental faculties to an astonishing degree, who physically cannot get out and do the things that they once loved to do. These fears are called to the front of my mind when I imagine a collection of haggard old men sitting in rocking chairs on funeral home porches, being winnowed out through years and months until two, one, none remain.

As futile as it is to fear death, I am certain that it is equally as futile to fear aging--for unless death comes early, aging is just as inevitable a fact, just as unstoppable. Yet the knowledge that death could come at any moment is oddly comforting... whereas aging is a gradual process, striking constantly and unobtrusively, until one day you realize that you are not what you used to be. I cannot imagine being alive and yet being unable to do the things I do today--from going on a weekend mountain-hiking expedition, to driving my car two hours up the road, to having a conversation where I am fully cognizant of who I am, where I am, and with whom I am speaking. Someday I may not have those abilities, and yet my heart will still be pumping life through my rapidly degenerating body. Ça, c'est la vie? I wonder.

But for all my fretting, To Dance With The White Dog did not depress me. It reminded me of the fragility of life and challenged me to look at the world through the eyes of an elderly man who knows he is not long for this world, yet still fights to life deliberately until his last breath. And that is an encouraging thought. I guess we can only expect to make the most of what he have right at this moment. So right now I am young and I have an entire lifetime ahead of me, and I have all the strength and sharpness and freedom that I can ask for. So now is my time to make the most of those things. And then perhaps when I am much, much older, I will be content with what I still have remaining, not mournful of the things that have gradually slipped away. At any rate, it is worthless to worry about such things now--because my life could end tomorrow, and I will not want to have spent my last day on earth fretting over a day and age that would never come.

How beautiful the world can be...

Blackberries

Protruding from the wiry, spindly brush
with skin pulled tight like the head of a drum
encasing sweet, warm droplets of sun-ripe
ruddy juice--delicate and plump, teasing,
drawing a covetous gaze as velvet
tempts you to graze it with your hand or cheek.
Dark with soft, placating sheen collecting
all energy and light like small black holes
of deep summer, they ensnare and transfix
and you salivate and long for a taste
and the event horizon is traversed.
What could approach perfection so nearly
as a warm burst of tartness on your tongue
that stains your mouth, seeps into the creases
of your hands like hairline cracks in your skin
and just beneath, a reservoir of blood?
Oh, I remember blackberry-picking
and how the sting of nettles scrawling bloody
scratches on your arms was worth the reward--
pain for sweetness on your tongue, an exchange
some will never choose to make. But I hope
in my life to always pick blackberries.

Another fire has been put out

I think I know this person....

That looks kind of like a girl I knew once, not that long ago. I knew her five years ago; I think I even knew her one year ago. But I don't know where she is now--or if I will ever see her again. The woman in this photo looks... different. Weary, as if from a long voyage. Eroded, perhaps. A bit more polished, a bit more dull along the edges.

But there's something else. Look at her eyes. The girl I once knew had deep, dark eyes that sparked and crackled like dried leaves scattered over a campfire. They were electric and fully alive. And not only alive, but nearly able to bring the world to life all around her.

These eyes are missing that energy. These eyes look old. Beaten. A veil stands between them and the outside; can you see that veil? Whoever this woman is, I cannot see into her heart. I cannot see past the resignation behind which her heart hides itself.

I spent an evening with a friend of mine recently, visiting a college campus where he had been a student ten years earlier. There were not many students around, being summertime; but as a small group of students walked past us my friend remarked, looking at them, "They have that look in their eyes..."

"What look?" I asked him.

He turned to me. "Innocence. Excitement. They believe anything is possible... The world hasn't gotten to them yet." He sighed. "I wonder when I lost that spark. You never know when you lost it or how you lost it. You just look in the mirror one day and you realize that it's gone. Once you realize it's gone, it's too late. You'll never get it back."

The woman in the photo above--has she lost that spark? Does she still believe that anything is possible, or has the world twisted her so much that it has strangled her spirit? Has she ever looked in the mirror and realized that she is no longer the girl she used to be--and she never will be again?

I hope that doesn't happen to me.

Order/Chaos

Somehow I can find the poetry hidden in everything. I guess it's how I experience order and beauty in this chaotic world. From the mediocre to the extreme--the dreadful, the painful, the wholly uneventful--there's got to be something there to make it all make sense. In it all, something must make it worth all the while. And art is how I uncover it. Somehow, everyone has got to deal. Right?

The Road Not Taken

One of the most misinterpreted poems I can think of is Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken." People seem to want to read it as a poem about individualism, not following the crowd, making your own way in life even if it's not the culturally acceptable way. But I think this poem means something altogether different. Something which every single one of us can relate to. It is a poem about making a choice, and the doubt that inevitably follows; it is a poem about forever wondering what might have been. You notice that the poem's title does not emphasize the choice the narrator did make. Rather, it alludes to the foregone alternative, which is still a lingering thought in the narrator's mind. It is a poem about all the things that may have happened, all the happiness and all the tribulations that may have befallen the narrator, which now can only be guessed at--for the time to walk that path is gone forever.

I have certainly seen times where I had to make a life-changing decision, and I always torture myself with the question of whether I did the right thing... particularly when the choice I made seems to go awry. I find my head spinning with thoughts like, What if I had done it this way? What if I had chosen that instead? Would I have gotten hurt like this? Would my life have been better? Have I screwed everything up? I have had my share of those thoughts recently. And I feel the heaviness that overcomes the narrator of this poem when he says, "I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence..." It's a deep, regretful sigh, in the face of having made what he (what I) may always fear was the wrong decision.

One of the wonderful things about poetry is that it tells me things about myself that I could never have put into words. I understand that this narrator feels a lingering pang of sadness at having left this crossroads behind, because I have felt that too. Why? I think it's partly because I fear the unknown. And I think I am not unique in that regard; I am sure that many of us step with trepidation when we find ourselves in a position of not knowing where we are headed. But I also think the sorrow stems in part from the knowledge that, for that one moment as I stood and looked down both paths, I held a piece of my fate in my own hands. And that is a grave matter, for if I chose wrongly, who is there to blame but myself?

Thoughts like that can drive you mad; or at least, they could certainly drive me mad. I don't want the responsibility of having to make a blind choice whose consequences will affect me forever. I don't want to stand here in the wake of the storm and know that it was nobody's fault but mine. That would surely defeat me. And in the end, who's to say that one path was better than another? The old adage says that hindsight is 20/20. But even hindsight only provides a one-angled view of anything, for I am simply looking back up the road I just traveled. I can never, never go back to that point in the road where I had to make the choice, and so I can never be sure what would have befallen me had I chosen differently. So I have to conclude, for my own sake, that there was no fault on my part or anyone else's. I am where I am today because of the choices I have made, and the only difference I can make now is choosing which way to go from here. It is very, very tempting to stand here in limbo and dwell on the road not taken. I do it all the time. But as long as I am doing that, then I am not making the most of my journey for what it is today.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by--
and that has made all the difference.

Yes. It has made all the difference, because it has shaped who I am. For better or worse, it is what it is. And I am alive and young and strong, and I still have miles to go before I sleep. And that is something for which I can be grateful.

Rest

Flowers are restful to look at. They have neither emotions nor conflicts.




~Sigmund Freud

It's not my fault.

This realization finally hit me this weekend. What's happened to me, what's turned my life into a nightmare... it's not my fault. I've tried to place the blame upon myself, just to have someone or something to blame--because if I could find an object of blame, then I had somewhere to direct my anger. Something to take it all out upon. I was happy to take it out upon myself. At least that way, I could get the anger out into the light. But I did not spare myself any harm by blaming myself. I didn't see it then, but now I do. For months now, I have torn myself to pieces over this situation--because I turned him away; I drove him mad enough to leave. And suddenly, I felt like my life was not worth the unbearable effort of being.

When I saw him last weekend, though, I began to understand that there must be something much deeper going on than him being simply unhappy with me. His discontent must be a product of his own demons, and I just happened to be standing on the bridge that he decided to burn. I have realized that I am not the only one he has decided to reject; rather, our marriage existed within an epoch of his life, the entirety of which he decided to reject. What else exists there with me? His whole life up to this point. His family... his faith... his entire past. What trauma can cause someone like him to reject everything he's ever known and fling himself headlong into one passion--himself?

That's what I see now when I look at him. I see an obscene fascination with himself. I see a gross disregard for any other human being. What I do not see, now, is the man I love. That person, I am afraid, does not exist anymore. What I fear even more is that he never existed--that this stranger, whom I loathe in so many ways, was always the "real" him. That his brief stint with me was something fabricated or imagined.

But at least, now, I can breathe a little easier, because I can see now that all along it was some madness within him that drove him to this. I did not drive him to this. I have to believe that. And I have to move on from there.

I am moving on. I have accepted this as simply the way things are. There is still sadness, but I know it will not linger forever. One of my friends told me, in an attempt to encourage me in the wake of all of this, that whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger. I told my friend in response, feeling utterly barren, that I did not know which of those alternatives would prove to be the case for me.

Now I know. Perhaps it was silly and weak of me to despair so deeply over this, to the point where I detested myself. But today, I can say definitively that I am going to be OK. I finally believe that. I am still leaning upon those around me for support; I know the next couple of months are not going to be easy, as I am in the process of putting this all behind me. I don't know how to put it behind me. But I know I must... and so I will.

Implosion

Like a parade
my beating heart before me marched
with meticulous measured meter
and the pregnant palpitationis ruptured
the membrane of my heart
like an overripe tomato
made sick by too much sun.

And like buckets
dangling in the fabric of everything
I saw the sloshing stars
brimming with everything
my heart could not contain
and splashing it across unending lifetimes.

And a sigh
like a sword slit across my throat
and it slid across my lips
where the wind whirled it away
an ocean and a world away
to strike an unfurling tendril
where perched a crystal dew-drop
which slipped silently away

like a tear-drop
sliding cool across my skin
weightless, unladen with encumbrances
of sighs and pounding hearts which
(faced with wind and trembling leaves)
escapes empty and shatters
soundless, while the drumbeats inward turn
and slow to fainter rhythms
whose painful, poignant peals
could never spill a star.

Out of control

That's the way I feel right now, about everything. Everything in my life, everything in the world, seems to be spinning madly… and I am powerless against the forces of the world. There is so much I want to change, so much that is breaking me and tearing my insides apart. So many turns my life has taken in recent months. I feel like my soul has become a wasteland, a dumping ground for the refuse of my life and the lives of those around me. And every day, every moment is too much. It's all too heavy. Sometimes it all seems surreal, and I think the days and weeks have been nothing more than an elaborate daydream. But then, the tears really are moist upon my face; the burning in my gut really does make me ill with sadness and disgust; and the desolate expressions in the eyes all around me reminds me that they are in on it too. They know—they share in the familiar uncertainty and in the hunger for better days. But somehow, these burdens and these particular pains are uniquely mine. I am evermore dragging around the weight of the world like sandbags tied to my arms and legs. And it's so hard, so hard, because I can see how much better it all could be—and I want to fix it, so badly. Fix my own troubles, fix the troubles of the people whose burdens I am bound to help shoulder… But as I said, there is no fixing it, no changing it. All I can do is stand and watch as things turn inside out—stand and watch, and live within the sea of sadness and injustice rising all around me… and wish to God it wasn't so.

That's all I can say.

The complexity of nature