Consequence of Time

“The darkness is a mirror of the depths of the soul. All that is hidden inside us, our desires and our fears, is projected onto the darkness.”

Ѻ

She feels the pull of night, of things borne of the night.

She pushes herself up from the floor, where she has been laying face down, while listening to her music; that powerful, and very important haven. She’d returned to this place – a place she does not call home, but the closest she has been in a long while – to decompress and become reacquainted with her oldest friend, for she’d resigned herself to a world with no music, no laughter, no warmth, no peace. She had been deprived of those comforts for so… so very long. The lingering whisper of that deprivation had forced her deeper inside herself. It bespoke of those things beyond her control, and the changes left in their wake. These things she understands, accepts.

She knows there is some knowledge and experience that one ought never to give voice. It changes nothing. Or everything. She doesn’t need to prove, with words, that she can survive the trenches. She is still here, still alive. How alive is a matter for time to tell.

There are new stains…

Stains that have changed her as a woman, as a human being, as a sympathetic empath with a heart. She feels with a heart which has been weighed, measured, and branded as defective – faithless – from having been nourished by the ways of man, and this world. She sees through eyes… more jaded by time. She thinks with a mind diseased by a flawed genetic pool, silver linings, unrealistic expectations, distorted fairy tales and, her own paradise lost. The crimson can never be washed away. She knows there is no whitewash for a woman like herself. If you took her hand, you’d feel the slick taint of the unforgiven.

This is a different kind of breaking.

With the sum of her choices and their consequence swimming in her head, she urgently pads barefoot to the back doors, taking the ancient, oval knobs into her hands and, she hesitates….

There is something so final and hopeful about closed doors.

She ponders, momentarily, on the crossing of thresholds – of stepping through those in-between places that lead one upon another path, acutely aware of the colliding emotions in her chest. The feelings are like savage starbursts trying to tear a hole through her to free themselves. She feels the air distinctly change; as it becomes dense and heavy, it hurts to breathe. She pulls in a ragged breath, and slowly turns the handle of each door, gently swinging them forward and out into the dark. The gust of wind that washes over her is unseasonably frigid, causing the first tear that falls to feel like molten lava, scalding a searing path down her weathered face… resting like a small, warm river between her lips. It tastes of too much salt.

Behind her, the music plays on.

Inexplicably, its affect on her is very different now; in her ears, somehow, more bittersweet. Everything in her world is changing – odd, that even familiar music feels so different. It takes on a different shape, color, energy, feeling, and meaning with the intensity of the emotions riding her. She listens, raptly – hearing every single word – ensnared; realizing how very deeply she had allowed her delusions to mislead her. She questions her hold on those illusions, and the terrible dream of reclaiming an irretrievable past, then closes her eyes, abandoning hope amid the turmoil and despair. She exhales with a long, anguished sigh. In her unfettered repose, she closes her eyes and begins letting them go with every passing note.

Between songs, the silence is so deep, she can hear her own hollowness.

Perhaps she had, indeed, become stronger through her weaknesses and trials, but made weaker in her love – after all.

The thought is a fleeting one.

It’s the music, coming from inside, that suddenly seems so unbearably loud. She hears a song by ‘Hurt’ begin – the bells ring their toll, and as they fade, he starts singing of his heart, his pain, his anger – his resolve. The lyrics make her feel like screaming, to drown out the violence of the chattering muck slicing its way through her mind. Impulsively, she places her hands over her ears to muffle the echoes of past chastisements that are rebounding in her head… “and O, by the way, with all you did, nothing has changed, so lie like a waste by the side. Cause everything just falls apart. ‘Cuz everything just fell apart for me…” He says that he cracked his head and broke his heart.

That wasn’t all he broke.

She feels her lips spread into a bitterly twisted, but involuntary smile, breaking the spell of the horrific moment. She walks hastily across the deck and goes quickly down the stairs; stepping into the cold, wet grass and nearly runs to the gate where the nightshade is in full bloom, to begin her task.…

Something makes her still.

Standing under the moonless sky, she lifts her face toward the vast canopy of stars and chokes – releasing the broken, heart-wrenching sob that has risen in her. It is upon her now. Her left arm instinctively moves to cover her breast, just over her heart. The wet sorrow drips from her chin, spatters her hand and falls, sinking into the earth. Her eyes close as she nods her assent; silently embracing the deepening darkness. She reaches for her baneful, deadly night-flower and succumbs to the awful, creeping melancholy that winds its wicked, sinister way inside of her; slithering through her like a strangling vine.

The demons are taking their meat.

It is now done.

No, she has no voice… not tonight.

While riding ‘fences’ – and walls – a heavy toll is duly extracted.

☼

They are the same, you know – hopes and fears – although the meanings may seem very different, they are not…

Ѻ

Paradise is Sinking

The barriers between life and death are crumbling.

Paradise is the smell of rain carried upon a deep southern breeze, mingled with the sweet, heavy scent of blooming jasmine, intoxicating gardenia and magnolia trees, laden with their lovely white and yellow fruits; gifting me their fragrance before the rain falls… to push, then gently pull their lingering aromas into the ground; there to be reborn.

The rain is always beautiful, always comforting. In it, I am not alone.

I meander along casually, sauntering down the ever-darkening path, and while passing the crape myrtle trees, bearing their crisp white, deep fuchsia, and tender lavender blossoms, I remember with a soft smile, a time when life was much simpler. Their delicately rippled flesh reminds me of the crêpe paper flowers that I made in second grade. They were pretty and easy to make. It was an outlet for my creativity. It made me feel special. It made me happy. I was good at it. It made the teacher happy. Simple.

That was my favorite time of day.

The breeze gently picks up, causing my ears to prick as the cicadas begin grinding out their unique chorus. I think about them hanging lazily up there, along with the moss that clings to the olde oaks that line the street – whispering of time – in the wet grave that is this ruined garden. Everything here seems to be slowly caving in upon itself.

The warnings were in place long ago, but history battles to preserve itself.

I can feel the electricity increase in the air around me. With its current passing through me, the energy it generates creates a warm, nuclear crawl up my spine, which releases, then spreads over my scalp; causing it to tingle and makes the fine hair on my arms lift – magnifying every sense. The sensation ends with me, instinctively, taking notice of the skies.

In anticipation, I watch as the encroaching clouds blacken with a gathering of the turbulent forces at work. I lower my eyes, take in a deep, relaxing breath and exhale pure contentment with a deep hum. When I open them, something from the periphery snags my attention.

In the shades of the great old Sanctuary I notice a strange movement.

The shimmering rays of sunlight dance briefly, then retreat, only to reappear, and then fade, shift, and emerge again; glowing triumphantly under the rapidly converging blanket of cumulonimbus cloud-cover, that signals the building volatility of the approaching storm. I find the twining symphony of dark, playing with light, captures and intrigues me with its dramatic effect. I narrow my eyes, intensely focus my vision, and am mesmerized by the secret souls of the old, European statues as they appear to move, whisper, and breathe with the rising wind, as the gently swaying branches of the trees dapple what remains of the blotted sun against their frozen bodies.

‘Béatifique,’ I whisper into the air.

I cannot stop watching. Suspiciously, I wonder just how much of the motion is merely a simple trick of light and… shadow-play.

‘They, not unlike me, must surely desire to dance under the coming deluge of nature’s bountiful fury,’ I muse, almost wistfully, and smile.

When I hear a warning clap in the near distance, it pulls me out of my mystical thinking. I resume my evening walk, by reluctantly picking up the pace. I am so lost in the sensory experiences, I’ve not noticed that the flagstone has buckled over the roots of the aged trees, and it catches my foot at an awkward angle, sending me head-first into a reeling, sidelong stumble. I regain my composure with the heat of rose-blush inflaming my cheeks, and a sudden, pressing yearning to find shelter.

The magical moment is broken.

The sky forks lightning with a violent crack and rumble, then opens above me.

I lift my face to the heavens; I raise my arms; my eyes shutter and close…

I feel the serenity of my garden paradise spin and sink.

Cellar Door

Hello, out there. Yes… I know, it’s been a long while since I was here last. And, like yourself, I too, am wondering why I’ve opened this blog again after all this time.

For all intent and purposes, I came here tonight to sever this tie, to burn the electronic thread that connects me to this blog, and hence, to the very sticky web of this particular blogging world. And, I still, sorely, want to press that taunting ‘delete’ key-button, to finalize my painful internal explorations here, but I haven’t.

Upon – even long before – my return, I felt the intense urge to start anew, someplace else, but the more I considered the reasons why, I began to think of my initial reaction as being premature, impulsive, and irrational. So, instead of clicking off and quietly disappearing from WP, I hovered for awhile; quietly reconsidering how OA has served me in the past – what erasing it would mean.

On a personal level, when I went back and read some of the old posts, I actually cringed while reading a couple, cried when I read others, and, more than a few times, I wondered aloud why I posted certain writings at all. I have always secretly thought that, perhaps, public journaling is not the best idea for someone like me. HaHa. I know, huh…

Then I went a little deeper.

When I was actively writing here, this space was like having my own private cellar door; a sheltered place where I could open to that shadowy underworld and deposit all of those ugly, painful memories, the melancholy feelings, the darker thoughts – then simply close the door on them. I could give vent to the blackened aspects of my hidden inner-self, and was enabled to do so — without the worry of offending someone, hurting feelings or fear the wounding of anyone in the process.

In lieu of a trusted relationship, this is the unique vessel – outside of my head – that I have chosen to contain, preserve, and suspend those snippets of my personality… all, so that I may gain some objective distance – even while holding them close. I need this place to, again, become a refuge where I can safely break bread with the contents of my head and heart.

I have reluctantly buried parts of myself here. And, I feel that it would be foolish to burn it down, because I want to write again, or rather, need to write again, and I need to now, more than ever before. Starting over, elsewhere, changes nothing. I am already here.

I think that no matter how sad, how poorly written, how depressing, disturbing, alarming, distressing, or whatever… how terribly morose and morbid that I can be, or am; it does not justify closing down this blog, just because of a little discomfort — of my feeling too exposed.

None of that should matter anyway. Nothing I say, do, think, feel or write will affect your life – personally. And that is what I would like to believe, but deep down there is a reasonably intuitive, little voice that is whispering that is not entirely true.

Nevertheless…

These writings are simply small offerings; brief glimpses, snapshots in time, the draining of emotional upheaval, random expulsion of painful memories and, on the rare occasion, I may even share a good one… and if we‘re very lucky, I may detour and take excursions into the more tolerable and lighter side of myself – in prose, poetry, fiction and/or fantasy. That is the best that I can sometimes give.

None of them more, or less, than little pieces of me that I choose to share with you.

And however difficult it may be; the desire to write, typically, ignites during those times when I am confronted, dead-on, with those dreadfully awful extremes that make up the myriad facets of my mental and emotional disposition. So, instead of exhibiting a happy, happy, joy, joy, romance, or a fucking and sucking imagination – sadness, anger, pain and love are the emotions that most often compel me to write. And sadly, far too oft, they are the only motivations or experiences that can engender the deep need for that expression. Until I decide what I want to write about, that is what you will find here.

It doesn’t always leave one with a good impression.

That is the part of me you see and know. This is not a ‘happy’ place, nor do I present it as such. It is aptly named: Osmosis of Affliction – for good reason. And, for any reader who visits, I know how very challenging it must be for you to read here sometimes.

As a conscious and, I’d like to think, relatively self-aware individual, I firmly grasp that my psyche -the woman you see here- could easily be perceived -or translates- as dark, ill, warped and, even somewhat disturbed at times; logically assumed or reasonably derived, simply from the topics that I choose to write of, the ways in which I write them and, how they come across, etcetera. And, I suppose that, at various times, I can be one or all of those things – and more. ~soft smile~ I understand well, how the odd directions that my writing takes can make my observable temperament difficult to tolerate, understand, digest or accept.

I get it, but…

Surely, you must know that opening to judgment and criticism is never easy – not for me. It is far worse, if you’re an introvert. I am self-conscious in the ‘real world,’ and I’m not much different here – just a bit darker. At least when I am writing here, I am able to be open about that aspect of my personality… Like it or not.

However, I must say that, I find it appalling and most distasteful to crash and burn under your watchful eyes, and then dare write about it, openly, but I need this outlet. This is the only private corner left of my world where I will allow myself to spill over and release some of the un-pretty truths inside of me. Therefore, it will stay for a while.

I will be here for as long as time and circumstance permits.

Hexagrams

***

Sometimes when we look into the future; it changes…

Other times, it remains the same; the more it appears to change.

And yet, we continue to ask all those questions…

When deep inside, we already have the answers.

***

_____________: Change/9
______ ______
_____________
______ ______
______ ______
_____________

*

Nines: It always seems to equate to a nine.

***

GunsnRoses – I Used To Love Her (but I had to Kill her)

Nautilus

+X+

He asked me where it hurt;

I opened my chest,

and my heart fell into a puddle.

He reached inside;

shook off the mud,

and listened to the sea.

+X+

The Psychology of Vinyl

I’m not quite certain exactly what this particular writing is truly trying to convey – it is what it is, I suppose. This is how it (the thought) manifest itself. It was written sometime back, and has been sitting in the drafts folder because I just can’t seem to make it say precisely what I want it to.

It isn’t too fargone sad, so it gets published.

***

A Song of Humanity:

Pressed from
a common mould;
beginning
as a stirring,
a thought,
a feeling;
emotion
naturally
transforms;
Elements
conjoin;
Willing
itself
to exist…
reformation;
Soul Songs
and
newborn babes;
borne
of colors
and tones
and thoughts
and passions
and flesh,
wherein lie gods;
residing in
the serene
and painful
spaces
between;
that quicken
the pulse,
inspire greatness,
or steel sorrow;
lifting the weighted
spirit of the soul;
freeing the true
core of beauty
that smolders
underneath;
Finding
the black notes
make me feel naked
and exposed;
exhuming
dark vibratos;
while shivering
under renewed skin;
Spinning away.
Lost in time and,
the dance of
Simplicity;
stamped,
pressed
into
recesses;
lines betwixt
hold
the magic notes
read
by sharpened points;
understood
by the most
discerning ear.
A beloved tune
cannot be erased
completely;
it lives on,
unmarred;
inside your head
Your heart.
Turn it over;
rearrange
its melody.
A familiar
memory
coalesces,
harmonizes;
shows its
weathered face.
Peculiar
Wounds of Age;
the lines
the scratches
the gashes…
Unintentional
scars inflicted.
Cherished
by an owner
who must hear
the tune played
again and again.
With enough
appreciation;
the becoming
the listening
the merging
the possession;
creates its own
unique sound;
to be treasured.
We learn to
listen past;
beyond the skips,
pops and snaps;
Those
amplified sounds
of imperfection.
Attuned
Listening;
hear the truth,
of an age
far passed;
and that
is to be
loved
enough.

***

Mother

***

Do you remember that night you called?
Our customary daily connection;
You always did have uncanny timing.

You warily, insistently probed.

You always had that patronizing tone.
That time it was unlike any before,
I smelt the fear lacing your queries.

I so often hated that words were unnecessary.

You’ll never know how often I silenced;
tried to hide me from the you inside me.
“Nothing is the matter.” I lied.

You was there first; how could you not know?

You didn’t know why you was crying.

I did.

It was the closing door… you knew.
Just like You did, Mother – so many times.
Did seeing yourself scare you so?

Have I become a distorted, hideous reflection?

Maybe the tears shed were foreshadowed.

It never was about the spoken.
But the words – the ones left unsaid;
Saying more than our mouths ever could.

Across lifetimes and a thousand miles from nowhere.

***

I miss you, Mother.