de bene esse

but who knows, or better yet, who cares? you are dead. dead. i can not and will not comprehend any of it. just about a week ago we held hands for the last time and neither of us knew that it would be the last time. each time that i walked out the door, i did wonder if i would ever return. after all, i reasoned, anything could happen to me and make me a statistic in a natural catastrophe or of a technical mishap. we have all been waiting for your death, and nobody ever dared to ask how long it would take until you were relieved from feeling your fast decaying body yield to disfunction. remember when your diagnosis came and we discussed suicide? you were afraid of the pain and the suffering; morphine helped. you never read what i wrote, and that was just fine with me; i liked this foreignness in our relationship. i brought you books written by my favorite authors and you read them. i shared with you a bit of my world, or at least i tried.

just about six months ago i showed you a corner of my life that i had never shared before, we had tea. i took you to a corner of my world, a world that was very foreign to you, and a world that disoriented you. we shared a room on occasions, and on others i made you endure my culinary diversions, you gave frank comment and pointed critic, and often we laughed about my experimentation. now one thing stands for sure, and that is that that picnic we had planned is just not going to take place.

what i wonder now is how quickly you resigned to your ill fate, you knew that you did not have much longer to live, you were paralyzed, you could barely speak, and you did not loose your sense of humour. there was no rage and anger in you, you just endured the suffering, rejoiced at the pretty faces of the medical staff, and you held my hand.

thank you for holding my hand, and sharing my world.

i resent

resentment! what a strange word in my vocabulary it is. it is a foreign word in this vocabulary of mine. here in the place of horses and egos, my resentment has found a home.

i talked with you yesterday, you called, i answered, we both had no time. we connected. i feel naive and humbled. i am tasting sadness like i have never tasted sadness before. you told me about your back and your kidneys, and i told you about that secret that i keep hidden in plain sight, my pain.

i resent that she never took action to touch me. i do not resent being ignored.

it is strange that time and again you appear in my life to comfort me. you are a muse, you are inspiration, and you are imperfection itself.

are my sadness and pain the expression of my resentment? i do not resent not being acknowledged.

how can i tell you that it was not in the arms of another but in his arms i found that warmth that i dreamt could exist? when he found me i had so much resigned to my own solitude. now i need you the muse, and i need him the one of my one, his own.

i resent the deception. i see the suffering. i find myself powerless. i can only observe. but do i feel? do i care? i resent.

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.

pain, addiction and the generality of nothing

i think. sometimes. maybe. all i need is the smallest of all gestures, and then i am calm again. you show up in the remotest corner of my horizon, you are peace. oh, i do not understand this, and i am delighted in my lack of understanding. would we be able to access solitude and silence in the nurturing arms of each other's respect?

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