When they see him in the street, hopping over puddles, striding with purposefulness, eyes forward, back straight, and shoulders set like the scales of justice are rumored to be; they are certain that he is honored, held tightly and close and worshipped at night.
So becoming is he, with a head like a polished bowl and a manner that surely only rulers must have; easy confidence, natural appeal, a sense of comfort with the way he moves his own weight. They are convinced for a quick fleeting flash that they want him.
With his eyes he may dismantle the sturdiest of barriers. His lips may untangle the most concealed facets of love and that skin that glistens like the deepest of brown waters announces him, separates him from those yet to discover themselves. They feel secret pangs of envy and resent him.
So expert is he, with a mind like an antique clock with parts that are delicate, disguised and hard to reach. He deceives them. On the inside he feels as if pressed between concrete walls; stripped nude and in exile with arms and legs bound, shivering and praying to be touched just once by a loving hand.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
On Forgiveness
Forgiveness is healing; it is the process of treating a wound and nursing it back to health, thoughtfully, meticulously, and with the use of the right tools. Since anger, hurt and resentment are such overwhelming emotions, they are easy to preserve and revitalize at any given moment. It takes effort to release them. It takes strength to let go of the surprise and devastation of an affront, whatever the level.
Forgiveness is understanding, not necessarily only to decipher why something has happened, or what motives a person may have had for that person's dirty deed – but an appreciation of the fact that one is going to be faced with the challenge of having to wholly assess the situation, measure the damage, muster the energy to let go of the negative consequences, and to move on. Such actions require serious objectivity of thought, disregard of pride, and rejection of malice; difficult tasks.
Forgiveness is awareness. It is being conscious of how the injury was delivered and by whom; it is considering the reasons motivating the blow and pondering the universal purpose of it all. Life's events have the quality of repeating themselves. One must be ready; prepared to apply the truths taken from the current situation to one that is likely to come, and primed to extricate toxic characters from one's life story. In the end, we must build the courage to extract ourselves from destructive environments.
Forgiveness is self preservation. It is vital to peace of mind, well being and sanity. For the actual or perceived wrongdoer is not burdened by hurt or anger, saddled with betrayal or weighed down by bitterness. He or she is pouring drinks, eating heartily, thriving and traveling forward after having done the worst. We must also continue forward, come to terms with our emotional torments, let them go and let the instigators pass from our minds…with no prejudice.
Forgiveness is understanding, not necessarily only to decipher why something has happened, or what motives a person may have had for that person's dirty deed – but an appreciation of the fact that one is going to be faced with the challenge of having to wholly assess the situation, measure the damage, muster the energy to let go of the negative consequences, and to move on. Such actions require serious objectivity of thought, disregard of pride, and rejection of malice; difficult tasks.
Forgiveness is awareness. It is being conscious of how the injury was delivered and by whom; it is considering the reasons motivating the blow and pondering the universal purpose of it all. Life's events have the quality of repeating themselves. One must be ready; prepared to apply the truths taken from the current situation to one that is likely to come, and primed to extricate toxic characters from one's life story. In the end, we must build the courage to extract ourselves from destructive environments.
Forgiveness is self preservation. It is vital to peace of mind, well being and sanity. For the actual or perceived wrongdoer is not burdened by hurt or anger, saddled with betrayal or weighed down by bitterness. He or she is pouring drinks, eating heartily, thriving and traveling forward after having done the worst. We must also continue forward, come to terms with our emotional torments, let them go and let the instigators pass from our minds…with no prejudice.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Guardian Of The Gates
It was an odious sight, the way her mouth twisted to form the words, as if she distorted her lips to spit out a bitter grain. And her eyes shone with secret ugly pleasure like some sort of Medusa…live and just as terrible as the capabilities of the mind that could imagine such a creature – a ragged old bitch with snakes for hair and poison on her breath.
But he did not think of those things when he heard her words. He was not capable. It would be years later, in adulthood, when he’d be able to analyze why she would want to hurt him so. For there, in that moment, with the end of the barbed wire whip tearing a generous gash into his young heart, he was just confused.
Were but for the windows to crash away, and the walls to collapse; were but for the zinc ceiling to be carried away by the wind, and the floor to crumble taking him into death’s crushing arms, he would not care. No hurt could be fathomed after, that would dig him as deep. For there, in that moment, his young heart could not understand why she would want to hurt him so.
A child so young would not yet appreciate how time can harden and embitter the mind; how one damaged hand strikes so easily at another. He did not yet know that such a lesson was one he would have to learn many times. In his innocence he was easy prey. And she called the name with such evil ease that he almost did not receive the shock.
Were but for the windows to crash away, and the walls to collapse; were but for the zinc ceiling to be carried away by the wind, and the floor to crumble taking him into death’s crushing arms, he would not care. No hurt could be fathomed after, that would dig him as deep. For there, in that moment, his young heart could not understand why she would want to hurt him so.
But he heard the words and saw her mouth, saw her still body and her bare feet on the floorboards, saw her forehead and her descending shining eyes; with snakes for hair and poison on her breath. In a dream someone whispered that peace was his reward, it was written and recorded, the testing of his spirit, for he was a keeper of the gates of heaven.
It was an inkling of these things in him that stirred her passions well. It was the allure of wholesomeness that set her on her path. She had a taste for destruction and a vendetta to carry out. It was written. His was the duty to hold and heal her damaged hands, to bring them to his face and kiss them, to show the compassion which she once withheld from him.
But he did not think of those things when he heard her words. He was not capable. It would be years later, in adulthood, when he’d be able to analyze why she would want to hurt him so. For there, in that moment, with the end of the barbed wire whip tearing a generous gash into his young heart, he was just confused.
Were but for the windows to crash away, and the walls to collapse; were but for the zinc ceiling to be carried away by the wind, and the floor to crumble taking him into death’s crushing arms, he would not care. No hurt could be fathomed after, that would dig him as deep. For there, in that moment, his young heart could not understand why she would want to hurt him so.
A child so young would not yet appreciate how time can harden and embitter the mind; how one damaged hand strikes so easily at another. He did not yet know that such a lesson was one he would have to learn many times. In his innocence he was easy prey. And she called the name with such evil ease that he almost did not receive the shock.
Were but for the windows to crash away, and the walls to collapse; were but for the zinc ceiling to be carried away by the wind, and the floor to crumble taking him into death’s crushing arms, he would not care. No hurt could be fathomed after, that would dig him as deep. For there, in that moment, his young heart could not understand why she would want to hurt him so.
But he heard the words and saw her mouth, saw her still body and her bare feet on the floorboards, saw her forehead and her descending shining eyes; with snakes for hair and poison on her breath. In a dream someone whispered that peace was his reward, it was written and recorded, the testing of his spirit, for he was a keeper of the gates of heaven.
It was an inkling of these things in him that stirred her passions well. It was the allure of wholesomeness that set her on her path. She had a taste for destruction and a vendetta to carry out. It was written. His was the duty to hold and heal her damaged hands, to bring them to his face and kiss them, to show the compassion which she once withheld from him.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
A Web Of Silk
Where there is a beginning, there is an end. The universe is set in an infinite balance; uneven but even, unequal yet equal…like a web. Stars hang in the distance in their own peculiar pattern, like ice drops in the daylight, frozen as they fall; disordered but ordered…in a web. Trees stand in their own specific fashion, with vines grouping like the veins that run to the human heart; elaborate but plain…like a web.
It was a friendship solidified by time and born out of the circumstances, of place, of destiny, of complexion and plight. They fought the same fight, even if they had not yet known it. It was a brotherhood. Who discussed the stars and trees, when food had to be bought and obligations paid? Who meditated upon the intricacies of the universe, when jail or death was just one wrong turn away? It was a matter of survival. It was a matter of making one’s way in a predatory world. Their paths crisscrossed like a web.
It was a friendship burdened by its own environment with seeping toxins gnawing at the frame, miniscule like the clinging molecules in a web. It was a brotherhood. One brother can injure another, and nurture resentment in every form. One friend can love another with envy and dislike as his constant residents. Love is an object with many sides; an object of one color with different shades. Envy has strands that are deeply laid; they strengthen and stretch out like a web.
One brother will betray another and seek forgiveness to betray again. Betrayal is a brew that is bitter in its warmth. No brotherhood can rest on contaminated grounds. There has to be an ending. It is a matter of survival. It is an exercise in self-preservation. Love will not subsist on the length of time alone. Love must be bolstered, and built upon and reinforced and respected. Love must revere the sensibilities of all of its subscribers, and rejuvenate itself like a web.
Where there is a beginning, there is an end. The universe is set in an infinite balance; uneven but even, unequal yet equal…like a web. Stars hang in the distance in their own peculiar pattern, like ice drops in the daylight, frozen as they fall; disordered but ordered…in a web. Trees stand in their own specific fashion, with vines grouping like the veins that run to the human heart; elaborate but plain…like a web.
It was a friendship solidified by time and born out of the circumstances, of place, of destiny, of complexion and plight. They fought the same fight, even if they had not yet known it. It was a brotherhood. Who discussed the stars and trees, when food had to be bought and obligations paid? Who meditated upon the intricacies of the universe, when jail or death was just one wrong turn away? It was a matter of survival. It was a matter of making one’s way in a predatory world. Their paths crisscrossed like a web.
It was a friendship burdened by its own environment with seeping toxins gnawing at the frame, miniscule like the clinging molecules in a web. It was a brotherhood. One brother can injure another, and nurture resentment in every form. One friend can love another with envy and dislike as his constant residents. Love is an object with many sides; an object of one color with different shades. Envy has strands that are deeply laid; they strengthen and stretch out like a web.
One brother will betray another and seek forgiveness to betray again. Betrayal is a brew that is bitter in its warmth. No brotherhood can rest on contaminated grounds. There has to be an ending. It is a matter of survival. It is an exercise in self-preservation. Love will not subsist on the length of time alone. Love must be bolstered, and built upon and reinforced and respected. Love must revere the sensibilities of all of its subscribers, and rejuvenate itself like a web.
Where there is a beginning, there is an end. The universe is set in an infinite balance; uneven but even, unequal yet equal…like a web. Stars hang in the distance in their own peculiar pattern, like ice drops in the daylight, frozen as they fall; disordered but ordered…in a web. Trees stand in their own specific fashion, with vines grouping like the veins that run to the human heart; elaborate but plain…like a web.
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