smudged thumb print on the second last petal

imprint of a feeling that hungered

snap back with the stinging as the red shows

a wounded flower so pretty in its pose

still pretty with only one hope left

clinging to the base of its blossom with cloying grandeur

at least it thinks

at least it continues to define the whole

apart from the stem

the others sigh green

why always this one

always the last one born

so pretty can’t you see

its edges catch reflecting raindrops

with swirling smiles from the sun


and stars

it could command the galaxies this one

leaving four fingered prints on their lenses

making them so giddy they’d spill their soil

exposing all routes

there would be truth in that

a way at the very least

to make its detachment




Sinking Madness: Home at the Bottom of a Well

fallen long and far enough now and I have finally hit the surface of the water
at the bottom of the well. I have been in free fall for so long now that I was
starting to wonder if I would ever hit any water at all – at least something
that might be a bit of resistance against the awfulness of the fall. I have
been in free fall so long that I was no longer frightened of the fall itself
and so I had stopped swinging my limbs wildly and just lay still as I fell as
if I had nothing else to give. But now I hear the splash and its echoes that
hit the walls of the well, the echoes filled with tension, harsh laughter and
almost insane relief.

The tears
have finally come and I am able to cry after what has seemed like an eternity. There
are tears of relief at the fact that I can still connect with myself as in the
free fall I had become numb to myself allowing the hardness of undesired loneliness
to dictate its terms to me. There have been tears of sadness at what has
happened in the last months of this torrid year, tears that admit that it has
been rough and I have been at times almost helpless. And of course there are
also the tears of anger at what has transpired and how it has made me feel
while I have been a willing participant in it all.

As I sit
here and write this through my tears it feels like two worlds are about to come
colliding together splintering my veneer and sending shards of every part of my
very being in all directions. As the lonely year that I spend away from home
comes to an end and I prepare to return home I feel unstable as I do not know
what to anticipate, for I have changed and home has changed, making my concept of
home something quite ungraspable. Strangely enough, even though I don’t know
what to anticipate all I seem capable of thinking about are the negative things
that might await me once I leave here, this place that has been home while I wasn’t
thinking about home, until of course I started thinking of home.

The return
of nasty habits, the return to shady dealings with shifty characters and the
return to a murky world that I fought so bravely and for so long to overcome. That
was growing up, maturing, separating, becoming. I sense the pressure as it
builds within me clouding my judgement and confining me to ruins even before I have
done anything at all. I hear my own voices of destruction taunting me and
reminding me of how weak I am and how ill disciplined I am. I listen to them
conspire and condemn me to my own horrors, automations and desires, base and carnal.
“You ran from your home even when you still lived at home trying to find home
on the streets amongst friends and foes!” I hear them say, ii hear them true.

I have
been avoiding this for so long that it feels good to hear them all now, for do not
make the mistake to believe that I fear them. I accept that these abominations
of my being are part of who I am and I carry them wherever I go. I am happy
that I am paying attention again, that I am hearing them clearly and being
spurred into action by them. The action I take is not that they would wish me
to take. Instead I am galvanized to take action against that which doesn’t
serve to empower me and make me feel good about myself.

I feel
good about these tears because the mere fact that I am crying tells me that I am
listening to myself again, that I am connecting to myself again and that I am
indeed never quite alone. “Of course you are never alone you are here with us!”
The voices hiss. But I am not bothered for I know that my age is such that I know
I will overcome this for I have been here before – many times. And what time
teaches, nobody can take away from you, especially if you remain impartial to
your own truth. “Yes!” The voices all say in unison.

This is a
good cry, a rich cry like the sudden and unexpected splashes that occur from
unexpected movements in deep wells. I have gone under the surface in that deep
well and now I sink in the mysterious water and its great vastness. I am not
afraid. This is my water, my being, where I know and accept that I am eternally
alone. I embrace myself and am buoyed by my rediscovery of who I am. I will not
be broken. They say in chorus “You shall not be broken, we shall not be broken.”

Worries Like Family, Family Like Worries

With just a bit of loving, life can be bearable. With a little
more, life can be splendid. With a whole lot of love, life can be glorious.

I think it is quite
safe to say all people have worries, except maybe for very small children and
perhaps forgone junkies, both of whom live in their own reality that is
constantly under threat of being crushed by the vagaries of everybody else’s
reality. Worries are constantly there with us whether they are the deeply
ingrained ones that make us fret about our physical appearance, our supposed
inadequacies and our status in life due to our birthrights, or even if they are
the simple day to day ones that are generally related to food, shelter and
basic survival.

Some of us worry more than others as it seems that there is nothing that we can do about it. Of course the extreme of worrying leads to chronic anxiety and eventually neurosis where one’s mind gets the better of them and they book themselves a certified one way ticket to a lunatic asylum where there is no return for un-purged souls – apparently. It is also said that a little worry is good for all of us in the same way that a little pain is also good for us in making us react to stimuli and therefore finding survival strategies to ensure our continuous development.

It is also true that
worry, no matter whether it is a little or a whole lot, is based on fears that
exist only in the mind of the worrier (isn’t it ironic, or at least intriguing,
that worrier sounds the same as warrior). Each person has their own fears that
they may transfer to those close to them but generally everybody creates their
own fears by dwelling on them and giving them breath to grow into paralysing monsters
that have the worst of symptoms. Often these symptoms are physical causing
illness or disease since one’s mind is ill at ease when one tends to worry.

So as with all things
in life one has to strike a balance of finding the right measure of worry,
enough to ensure that they are reacting to stimuli in the environment to ensure
their continuous development, and not too much to push them over the edge of
neurosis from where there is no turning back. It makes one think of how it is
said that what is good for you is also bad for you or what is your greatest
strength can also be your greatest weakness.

It also makes one think
how having worries is similar to having family. One cannot do without some
worries just as one cannot do without some family, and like worries family
comes in all shapes and sizes with the most bizarre dynamics. It seems that the
way some people nurture their worries and seemingly cannot live without them
constantly seeking to replace ones that have fallen away, is similar to how
most people cling onto family. Some of us fall just short of giving our worries
names such is our fondness for them. It is actually quite fitting that family
also tends to be one of our greatest sources of worries and just as family will
never leave you, worries will never leave you, so accept it and be freed by
your acceptance…