To René, at sea.

 

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Cartesian hymns, here and now

Have gradually lost their anchor

The heart of us is lost at sea

Nowhere floating, wandering.

 

We find islands, foundations!

We no longer fear to tread

Beyond horizons, far beyond

Mouth to hand we fed.

 

We built our house upon a rock

Proud we were to stand!

But sorrow came as we found

It was not rock, but sand.

 

So we slumped to the water from which we came

To float ’til we could see

Another island – firm foundation!

The essence, the truth, the key!

 

But it never came, we never saw

The rock on which we could build

So we settled there, in the sea –

until our lungs were filled.

 

The self is lost in the living stone

But your identity found in love

No island can truly satisfy

The longing found in the above.

 

R

 

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Ambivalence.

 

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I do often, and thoughtfully consider whether I can really know something.

Whether I can accurately, concisely define the world around me with words. I think it hurts us to be too exact about life.

 

There is always a flip-side, always a debate, always a better definition, always an additional factor and it’s always multi-faceted.

 I don’t think there is ever a real, true, bona fide fact.

 

Even saying that is too exact, in fact being less exact is deemed as a lack of tact when you consider personality.

 Having not enough tact in being exact is in fact, called being indecisive. But what if I don’t want to have an opinion?

 Not in a ‘I want to please everyone, so I’ll agree with whatever they say’ sort of way…What if I want to be purposefully indecisive?

 I want to be indecisive until I truly know something. Not snap back, with no tact, not considering the fact that someone else might see it differently.

 

So until I know that I know something, you can call me indecisive. FACT.

confortaré.

 

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Nirvana is when i’m moving.

 

Void of worry, void of time

 

Still.

 

‘Home is where the heart is’

 

What if your heart is homeless?

 

Neither comfortable, or settled – just homeless.

 

So where is your heart then?

 

Is it tossed, like a leaf falling from a tree?

 

The ebb of time, your heart flows flourishing as it falls,

 

learning everything it can until it’s destiny…

 

crunch. 

 

R

A Confabulation with Words

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Books have a done a lot for society.

 

Good and bad.

 

Greeks wrote them, Chinese burnt them, Arabs preserved them, religions believe them, people talk about them and our eyes read them.

 

But do our hearts hear the words?

 

They sometimes whisper gently suggesting things that might be true…sometimes they cry out for a revolution, for a saving grace to be found. Sometimes they are escapists, a utopia trapped in ink and paper. Do we realize that beneath the blackness of the ink, there is a blackness of the heart, a catharsis of emotion expressed in an aching wrist, scrawling a revolutionary cry across a nation…published by Harper Collins, found on the fifth shelf on the right, in the political section, if you buy one – you’ll get one free.

 

Words aren’t emotions. We are forever in pursuit of expressing ourselves. Have you ever watched a movie and held a loved one closer? Read a book and felt inspired? Sung your national anthem with hundreds of people? Stared a bit longer at that girl across the street? Felt angry? Cried? Been jealous?

 

Words don’t suffice. They are inadequate and unequal to our emotions. They are imperfect, shoddy and flawed.

 

But they are vital.

 

Your body is the vessel, steered by the words of your tongue. Make it your instrument. Let it sing in harmony with how your heart feels. Storms of life will crash against your bow, but that doesn’t mean you won’t sail sweetly, melodically.

 

R

 

Jitter-Bug

Fear will kill you, if you let it.

 

Anxiety niggles, like an aching muscle, it’s there constantly

 

but it’s not enough to scream about.

 

Scared? Of course I’m not!

 

…but I’m definitely fearful.

 

You frown like you don’t understand. He doesn’t think there’s any point thinking about things like that,

 

But it’s all that I can think about.

 

R

 

Horace Walpole

It’s rained for two weeks straight

 

By a log fire my toes curled, beneath me laid a terrier

 

I envied her beard.

 

Above the fire, a bookcase, waylaid with meandering

 

Many, many words that I will never read

 

“Crack!”

 

Said the fire,

 

Flicker

I feel.

 

I was never in quest for repose

 

R