We Drunk

We have no souls...


Time and Relationships (An incerpt from my journal)

The Demented Puppy (4th December 2009)

The rain continues to fall in a constant haze of light rain, just light enough to be a ghostly drizzle but constant enough to leave a moist coat on all surfaces – stationary or moving. It has been like this for the last couple of days – who knows how many exactly – and it is starting to feel like we are under siege from the most unlikely of sources. The rain they say has been shy in this area for a long time, prompting some to cry out that this has been the worst drought we have had in many years. But this can surely no longer be the case as the heavens continue to leak, so badly they make me wonder if there is no place for plumbers in heaven. And as the gentle drizzle continues to bless us with its harshness I am warmed from the inside by a feeling of being found, a feeling of being acknowledged, a feeling of being in love.

As the rain falls the skies remain grey as pensioners’ hair, and as the ground soaks the moisture I am reminded of my own emotional state. I feel wet I feel soggy with raw emotions released by the most natural of forces, I feel like I am drowning in an ocean of love, and for once I am not afraid that I cannot swim. In many ways I am inchoate in the coils of love but in other ways I am an old servant matured through rigor, obsession and perseverance. These past few days, which have turned to weeks, where the rain has fallen unabashedly in a time of widespread thirst I am rediscovering a love that never went away during a time when faith is low.

Today I am not ashamed, like the rain, to confess the depth of my feelings, for they are my reality and I bask in them with gluttonous fervour. My ex of old, my lover indeed, my soul mate through this journey has been found again, our paths intertwining for another eternal dance. Our reunion has been strange in ways I cannot explain for while we are letting ourselves get lost in each other’s passion we are very much still guarded, hiding something else stronger behind a veil of logic. We have both become more sensitive and timid in our engagements, lest we become victims of our own blindness like once before, so long ago it seems.

I feel like a love struck puppy ailing from its own naive precociousness, tripping over my own intentions as I try to mask my giddiness. I cannot help but feel vulnerable when I am around her, to feel completely helpless to her beauty, her charm her irresistible appeal. I feel I could spend a million days appreciating her allure on each day, discovering something new, something more succulent, something to worship. As I lose myself once again to all that I love about her I feel a sense of freedom like a weight has been lifted like I no longer have to hide behind a mask. I feel a sense of purpose as I am being what I have been created to be and I feel alive after so long.

And even though we continue to hide from each other not sure whether this is really happening, not sure if this is not an illusion, we seem to be willing to let it happen. On days like this I am not gripped by the fear of not knowing, instead I am invigorated by the ability to risk it all again, that strength to remain religiously held in my convictions. For if I were to ever stop believing in love I would cease to exist just as surely as the planet would shrivel up and perish without the constancy of the rain. Whether she represents a reality or an ideal is not for me to decide. Whether she is ultimately good or bad for me is not for me to decide either, because at this stage I am just in awe of the things she makes me feel. It has been too long and this sick puppy is not ready to be medicated yet…

The First Breath

That first indisputable breathe is the finest,

The boldest, innocently thirstiest, taking as much as it gives,

The air enters the tautly flared nostrils with the kindest,

Soothing force, giving vitality, reminding the being that it lives,

 Sweeping in uncontrollable yet perfect twirls it travels,

Down the eagerly opened wind pipe, the gateway between life and death,

The eyes close at the serenity of it all and the spirit unravels,

The first taste reaches both lungs, the deep cosmos, where it will be spread to the rest,

A brief stillness washes over the entire body as the conscious mind is disconnected,

Momentarily allowing the nothingness to seep in, invading, creating harmony,

It takes an eternity in which life and all its perplexity is accepted,

Nothing matters, meaning is void and the feeling of falling is taken calmly,

The very planet has entered, tasting earthy and feeling warm,

Mixing with the waters of the body, the emotions that bind being and world,

It is the realisation of a perfect design by imperfect forms,

The startling unification, a majestic bliss, the purity of energy returns,

Then there is movement as a collective release shudders through the being,

A single message heard throughout, echoing with the same vigour as the first breath,

The purpose is clear with a need acknowledged and naturally freeing,

There is nothing to be hidden, nothing to be feared and nothing from the past to be kept,

The mental capacities take hold of awareness as everything goes out,

The planning, the doubting, the worries and the dreams of a better existence,

The heart releasing its hurts like torrential rains from summer clouds,

A purging, a breaking of unwanted cycles, an abandonment of resistance,

The physical body welcomes the unity taking up the melodic rhythm,

One becomes two then three and then many more,

The spirit fully content with this living,

Shines brightly from the being’s core…

The King and the Virgin

An armoured King sitting attentively on a barren hill, devoid of season, just constantly under a sallow cloud of mist, dreams of things that men cannot feel, Surrounded by a blackened forest with withered trees that never bare leaves, tall, ageless stone walls, and ideas and machinations with a will of their own, he finds a certain peace, There in the hollows of the unaccepted ways there is a grace, a calling met with virtue, a bursting cynical enthusiasm like the spilling of dark ink on the white spaces left by an incomplete confession, From there the slimy tendrils of a once naive love sprung and slithered into a conventional world, a world of plastic dreams, dripping a vaporous fretfulness like the coughs of a young child, endearing but ill, he was to learn, The time no longer moves up there in the murkiness of this bastion, in this cerebral engine room of swirling voices, echoing watchfulness, as the King lines up each heart wrenching biopic of the lives he has lived and the betrayals he has endured, Up on the stone walls the scenes flash, the memories bullishly grimace and the voices laugh silently with their faceless smiles, His memories each separate characters with their own tale, each festering with the memories of each lover and the hurt in the details, the loss of control and the inevitable and suffocating questions, The dawdling whistling wind outside proffers alternate realities, rustling the leaves that are not there, almost parting the clouds to let the outside world peer in, for just a moment, for just a second that seems like eons, enough for doubt, the viscous killer of belief, to aberrantly bring hope, A faint scream in the distance cuts its way through the atmosphere jolting the King with a jarring suddenness, a deep resonating scream only perceptible to reciprocal beacons in this world of abstractions, a scream, almost pleasurable, in the passion of its truth, a scream that almost just as imperceptibly jolts his hidden heart that burns low like a tiny wick in the depths of an iron ore cave, How can it be that agony could be so beautiful, that taunting could seem like soothing, the melodic voice of a siren travelling across dimensions where distance is a farce, how could she know, understand and not be afraid of the bone yard at the foot of the hill, a vision of a Virgin floating above water, water from the endless tears she has cried, water that gives her strength and dilutes the nightmares of those that she loves, the tips of picked flower petals turn magnetically towards her, towards her centre, towards her unknown intrigue, Something from the King’s past hisses as the very ground beneath his booted feet trembles, down in the dungeons a little round eyed boy lifts his head from his knees in the corner where he sits, a prisoner of love and war, forgotten, he hears her too, sees the visions, sees what the King undeniably sees, They sense her emotions like warm breaths on the back of the neck, feel the attraction like the moon overwhelming the tides of the Earth’s oceans, she sees through gigantic eyes like portals from world’s more wise, her fearlessness astounding, facing the meaning of others’ lives, breaking down their fears, straightening the confusions and giving them a greater sense of self, The King’s fragile self could sense her vulnerability, a rescuer by nature, he could hear the drums of destiny, or doom, hastening the beat of an almost still heart, the clouds begin to darken and the pictures stop their dancing, all there is are words, his and hers, words creating the platform, silent words with the heaviness of love…