I see you. You are much older than I, with so much experience, so much life, so much more than I. You bear the marks of a woman scorned, beaten, bruised, abused. However arduous things became, you persevered. You overcame. You are. You...are...not. Perfect. You aren't perfect. Then again, neither am I. I am you. Much like you. So much like you it frightens me sometimes. Protege. Apprentice. Your legacy.
I see you. You accept the crumbs that are tossed your way. Like mother, like daughter. I see where I learned such things. I understand. I do not condone. With what you have given me, bestowed upon me, granted me, I will not accept your acceptance of pain and heartache. If you made me...who I am, who I have become, who you wanted me to be, how can you be the opposite? If I emulate you, then how can you be....you?
This is unfathomable to me, and I will not stand for it. You must rise above such absurdity. Find your strength as I found mine. A parent to a parent. It is apparent that you are unfit to do it for yourself. As you shaped me in my youth, I shape you in your maturity. I will give you what you gave me. I will share with you, the knowledge that you shared with me. It appears that you have forgotten your own words. Let me remind you of your strength, your intelligence, your value.
All my life, you were there to show me who I was. I now return the favor. You may not remember, but I have not forgotten who you are; I never will. Years have aged your beauty, yet it remains, a faint essence of what once was. I see you as I saw you years ago: a smile of light and countenance of ethereal beauty. Razor sharp, your words still cut diamonds and your wit remains quick. No need for whetting, your edge persists.
Do not tolerate such degradation. I implore you to terminate such relations with such vampires. Those who wish to alienate you, cheat you, use you up and spit you out. Psychic vampires. He steals your thunder. He dampens your spirit. Monsters such as he do not wish you see you get ahead; they wish to see you trampled, ruined, helpless and inconsolable. Come to the stronghold. I will give your stake and your hammer, but you have to be the one to drive it home.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Words Are Power, but Don't Give Them Too Much
A passage in a fabulous book I am slowly making my way through encouraged me to write yet again today. There is so much to share every day upon this earth and moments to cherish are numerous and often missed.
"Words are merely utterances: noises that stand for feelings, thoughts, and experience. They are symbols. Signs. Insignias. They are not truth. They are not the real thing."
Labels. Left unchecked, unmanaged and used liberally can destroy individuality, desire and dampen or extinguish the spirit. Liar. Cheat. Whore. Degenerate. Grifter. Sensitive. Depressant. Manic. Alcoholic. Addict. Spendthrift. Alien. Trash. Loser. To label is surely to condemn. To label is to die...inside. Who we are is not to be contained, corraled or masquearaded by idioms or phrases. To classify oneself or others is to whittle down the blade of humanity, to fray the tapestry, to remove the strength of ourselves as individuals, as God's essence, as divine energy is akin to removing the locks of Sampson.
Grow your tresses long--place no limits upon oneself or allow it from others. As soon as we accept a word as our label, we place our soul within a box. Because you think or worry about one instance in one day, you are not 'alcoholic, addict or obsessive.' While there may be elements of such in your story, your history, you are merely human; as humans, we maintain the right to imperfection and fault--perfection is an ideal and fruitless if sought.
Because you feel lonely, crestfallen or isolated, do not allow yourself to expect that your position and attitude are inexcuseable. No one is concerned with your label but you. What was once dark can be light again. The dark hole which you call 'home' is only as deep as you allow it. It is only home if you decorate it with fancy furnishings and persian rugs. Remember though, that all of the artwork in the world will not fancify a hole for it is just a hole. It becomes darker and deeper with our misery, our perceptions, our judgements and our actions--our resistance of the universe. People, excuses, labels, material goods, love--these things cannot fill the hole if the inhabitant tosses out each load of dirt as it is placed. A little dirt is good for us. Leave it be and ask for more.
"Words are merely utterances: noises that stand for feelings, thoughts, and experience. They are symbols. Signs. Insignias. They are not truth. They are not the real thing."
Labels. Left unchecked, unmanaged and used liberally can destroy individuality, desire and dampen or extinguish the spirit. Liar. Cheat. Whore. Degenerate. Grifter. Sensitive. Depressant. Manic. Alcoholic. Addict. Spendthrift. Alien. Trash. Loser. To label is surely to condemn. To label is to die...inside. Who we are is not to be contained, corraled or masquearaded by idioms or phrases. To classify oneself or others is to whittle down the blade of humanity, to fray the tapestry, to remove the strength of ourselves as individuals, as God's essence, as divine energy is akin to removing the locks of Sampson.
Grow your tresses long--place no limits upon oneself or allow it from others. As soon as we accept a word as our label, we place our soul within a box. Because you think or worry about one instance in one day, you are not 'alcoholic, addict or obsessive.' While there may be elements of such in your story, your history, you are merely human; as humans, we maintain the right to imperfection and fault--perfection is an ideal and fruitless if sought.
Because you feel lonely, crestfallen or isolated, do not allow yourself to expect that your position and attitude are inexcuseable. No one is concerned with your label but you. What was once dark can be light again. The dark hole which you call 'home' is only as deep as you allow it. It is only home if you decorate it with fancy furnishings and persian rugs. Remember though, that all of the artwork in the world will not fancify a hole for it is just a hole. It becomes darker and deeper with our misery, our perceptions, our judgements and our actions--our resistance of the universe. People, excuses, labels, material goods, love--these things cannot fill the hole if the inhabitant tosses out each load of dirt as it is placed. A little dirt is good for us. Leave it be and ask for more.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Taking the Stairs
It is our seance. No others are needed for the ceremony. Voodoo. Witchcraft. Magic. A lifeless body is once again alive, called back from the stark eternity. Sweet incantations have revived me. Energy exchanged, rendering me spellbound.
Did I ever tell you I thought I was dead? I was dead, anyway. My soul departed, my body hollow, my heart empty. How easily we forget. How easily I forgot--how to love, how to feel, how to live. How quickly we remember in perfect time. Perfectly. All is perfect. Perfect. What does it mean to be perfect? Perfection is a state most easily attained by none. It does not exist, yet there is the essence. Its essence is now. In the present. Presents. Presence.
You knew the right song to play, calling me as the charmer to the serpent. Serpentine. Serene. Entranced in notes cloaked as words, the song you play awakens my spirit. What once lay dormant now thrives again, a dance to match your song. Swept up by the Vertigo, my soul is resurrected.
The spell cast was constructed with eloquence, artistry, mastery of the craft. A warlock superior in mastering the powers of the universe, your spoken words, your focused intent was enough to shake the cosmos. Falling. Fallen. Fell under the spell.
A life without passion is no life. An existence void of love is none at all. I was once of the walking dead. Wings outstretched, armed with words as weapons I willingly surrender my hear to be pierced. Show me how to mend, my feathers bear the marks of war--tattered and sullied. I want new ones. I want to fly with you, wherever, whenever, no matter the course. No matter the distance; do not worry, I will keep up. This time, I will not fall.
Did I ever tell you I thought I was dead? I was dead, anyway. My soul departed, my body hollow, my heart empty. How easily we forget. How easily I forgot--how to love, how to feel, how to live. How quickly we remember in perfect time. Perfectly. All is perfect. Perfect. What does it mean to be perfect? Perfection is a state most easily attained by none. It does not exist, yet there is the essence. Its essence is now. In the present. Presents. Presence.
You knew the right song to play, calling me as the charmer to the serpent. Serpentine. Serene. Entranced in notes cloaked as words, the song you play awakens my spirit. What once lay dormant now thrives again, a dance to match your song. Swept up by the Vertigo, my soul is resurrected.
The spell cast was constructed with eloquence, artistry, mastery of the craft. A warlock superior in mastering the powers of the universe, your spoken words, your focused intent was enough to shake the cosmos. Falling. Fallen. Fell under the spell.
A life without passion is no life. An existence void of love is none at all. I was once of the walking dead. Wings outstretched, armed with words as weapons I willingly surrender my hear to be pierced. Show me how to mend, my feathers bear the marks of war--tattered and sullied. I want new ones. I want to fly with you, wherever, whenever, no matter the course. No matter the distance; do not worry, I will keep up. This time, I will not fall.
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