Thursday, June 16, 2016
Expectations. Sweet and long. Never leaves the core from which your life flower more. You expect that there will be beauty, comfort and rapture at the long end. Knowledge of being adored, loved and acknowledged. Behind every search, beyond any predilections there is Hope. Yearning. And for some Passion. It never gets blurred. It’s the elixir. The sustenance. The letting go and start anew.
And after all the disillusionment and dismay I like to sieve away all the bitter clumps of my existence and hurl it in a big white walled room. Where I lie supine on the floor, looking at the clean white ceiling and my breath so effortlessly let though. Though I know that tranquility like anything never stops being ephemeral.
And I pray I be less prudent and have less sense of the matters big and small. I pray that I don't see right through people and truth. I pray I be oblivion, ignorant and innocent. Me shrinking into an unperceived tiny void in a corner with hardly any words and memories. Let I be the corner, the wall, the lock. Let I be the sizzling keys and tick tock needles. Let I be the time winding down so indifferent to the fearing rest.
The tongue stuck in my jaw
It stuck in a barb wire snare
Ich, ich, ich, ich.
There is always a belief in having someone to offer you selfless compassion. But when you rethink the expectation, the most intense of the moments I had was always me being with me. With my own voice reassuring, relighting, rekindling to win over my doldrums. I remember once being lost in a moment of bewilderment in my childhood where I was being accused of hurting one of my fellows. I screamed, mewled, and fretted, loudly declaring my protestations. But no one could listen. No one could decipher. There lied the difference. That taught me in such a tender age never to give oneself so entirely, to anyone and anything. Not to turn loose that far. And yet I said “I do I do…” And I did I did.
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And I said I do I do
Forgiving oneself is hard. Mark Twain said forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that crushed it. The painful task is of the violet to convince itself that it has not lost its scent, even while it lay rotting. To revive the mellow memories of a childhood where I use to slither down from a muddy heap of nature with absolute freedom. Freedom in my hair, my mouth, in my knuckles. So young and so pure. With seldom foxiness to lure.
Freedom became the axial around my happiness. Freedom pithy in my heart and light in my moves. I desired it for me. For the ones who will hold hands with me. For the kids I may bear. For the students I teach. For every human I behold. And for birds, for butterflies and bees. For there is something beyond all the immediate pleasure of my chase, beyond all the expectation of contentment, there is a relentless quest that perpetuates my living. And I believe the quest rather than the destination is the quintessence of every existence.
And... I am finally through!