cycles

dear friend and fellow monk, dear departed, dear you. you wanted to know how it is going, and what it is that i have to tell, and what it is that i will tell. i have seen you at the distance, and i have avoided you when i could. the trouble is, you have been right, and you have been wrong, and i am damn tired of the judgements over right and wrong.

i know what i feel now, and i know i have felt it before, and i know that i have repressed it before. repressed feelings, the scholars would say. i say, it is not repressed feelings, it is the just glory of the mechanism of repression. repression comes out of need. to contain the tumult of the vortex of emergence, there are times that if the frame is not going to fall apart, you must repress what wants to emerge. you keep yourself pregnant, and you put that strong emotional hyper-energy in hibernation. some die without ever giving it expression, others, the warriors, they leave a trail burnt by that energy that emerges out of the sensory gut of your psyche. it is seldom a pretty picture, and on occasions it is a glorious and magnificent display of all that is noble. humanly noble! what a strange concept, this one is!

there are words that i refuse to use. there are sentiments that i can not express. there are needs that i can not represent. i live within the crevices of the unrepresentable, yet i live. i exist. on the best of days i amuse myself with the desperation of the struggle to just exist. on most days, existence is nothing that i care about.

this is the point where i go back to my armored cocoon. watch what tunnels on the other side of a reality that i have hidden from you, but can not hide from my self. the warrior returned.

i am scared

remember that we laughed just a few days ago, and do remember that that is exactly what just a few months past, i had no idea could ever happen.

remember laughing and thinking nothing of it, knowing that it all means nothing, that is ecstasy. remember?

remember how you have been my muse for the past few years?

i think that without you i would have succumbed long ago. without you i would have perished in my loneliness, without you i would have disintegrated within my own forces.

without you, i say. what do i say?

now i am facing a new sheath of fear. what is the dagger's nature so intimately embraced by that sheath?

does the sheath envelope the dagger, or does it protect me from its nature?

what is this that i am feeling now?

i am so very tired of this multitude of foreign feelings! do not let me get lost in their chaos!

in all the years that i have known you, for the first time i imagine the intimacy of our struggle.

i am scared, i need to remember the lightness of our laughter. i need to remember the lightness of my laughter.

could it be that i just need to forget all?

sleeping with demons

my mind is too cluttered for poetry. i have been sleeping with my demons, going to bed with the devil, and copulating with insecurity. thus my prose... riddled in muddle, ambiguity, and utter incredulity.

that is about the shape of things in the place that i find myself right now. i love it. it is like standing on the edge of the grand canyon and loosing all sight of perspective and distance. how far are those ridges, how far are those abysses? near of close?

yesterday i cried of sadness, and i was happy. i can still see in my minds eye how it felt to sit there curled in that designer chair near the university, and just feeling the warmth that sadness embraced brings, i called it happiness. it was awfully delightful, and it made me think of nothing in particular, i just felt surrender.

need

i have considered my needs.i have wondered. i have wandered i have flirted with insanity. i have seduced insanity.

deep into the writing of a novel, i start to draft another story that is not fiction. i can barely draw the distinction between fiction and non-fiction, much less keep them separate. i draw and all my frustration surfaces. i want to draw more. writing has became slow and tedious, a toiled labour. writing is my obsession. this is my predicament. it is my love. my love, my first love?

i could not have prepared better for this time. it could be that comfort is not what life is all about. i am curious.

 

are discomfort and ease ever simultaneously possible?

this winter i fell in love with a man, this spring i fell in love with a cherry tree.

i believe in nothing at all. not in the words, not in the images, not even in your existence

i need to breathe.

once

the desire is for silence

the desire is to disappear

the desire is to not exist

i am tired of words. they do not communicate

character after character

just abstractions vague empty

take a line. take its psychology

where are you? who am i?

what am i doing?

then close your eyes!

but you did not... you read. you keep on reading.

you wonder what is it that is not being said

what is it that i am not saying? what is it that you are not saying?

she hesitated, she did.

turn the page, do!

i am tired of thinking. i am tired of being a fucking genius. i am tired of you.

really, i am. i am.

me, just me

me and nobody else, that is who is here. just me.

these days i feel so completely raw. i feel vulnerable like i never have felt before. i do not know if it is that i have forgotten how i felt on other days, on other occasions, or if it is as i sense it these days. i have tunnelled through to that other side that i said that i would tunnel through. i do not know this side.

i had no idea of what i was talking about then, i just felt that there was something to tunnel through, and that there was another world on the other side. all my muses and friends have been my tunnelling midwives, who are you all? i am filled with gratitude and tears are never far. who am i? where am i?

it was something about discovering one day that there is nothing easier than to be me, and if life has been hard on occasions, it was because i thought that i had no right to just be me. it was something about a couple of months ago just wanting a bit of clarity about that muse's canvas. what was it that i wrote then? what was it that i wrote a few months ago? why is it that when i am confronted with my own prejudices, i want to die?

then, that was three years ago, it was something about a name. i, i do not even have a name to my identity, i am just here. but then it was a gift of the universe, and all i could do was to bow and say thank you.

being myself is doing nothing, or so i thought then. today, i do not even know. i just feel, raw and fragile. i feel tired of all the memories. yet, those memories just need a bit of compassion. they are mine, all mine!

whatever those memories in need of compassion are they come with aggression stored up somewhere in this body of mine. i have run and hit the tatami, and i have felt the love for the enemy in practice. there in front of me is the aggressor and all i can do to defend myself is to be totally aware and meet that aggression - mine - with all the universe's love. just me.