thunder

it lets me feel that crush, the press, the drain, the force, the... the placement of each is almost cathartic, i can see the billowing clouds of emotion jumbling up from each one placed down, struck down, slid down, flattened. just flattened. without prejudice. i can reach over and strike away the attempt of another, and with it simply destroy them, annihilate a set of feelings and emotions into despair. and we must keep on going, we must not stop, because there can be no end, there can be no pause, no hiatus, no quarter. but.

on the backswing, things are different. we can change our pace. each step can be more slow. we reconsider the events of the day, the happenings of that small clock we call our soul, the one that is ever in need of a winding and a new spring. there is now a notch in the chain, an engraving of accidental anger, a notch that will fill quickly and readily with lead, heavy and dragging. where did this come from, i wonder, did it come from perhaps the crashing and flailing about of the previous few moments, or is it like a canyon worn by time and repeated blows? and if so, where does this river run from, and how am i to stop it from carving deeper and deeper until it reaches the clock itself, the clock of my soul where it will drive a groove that can never be, removed?

is there no good to be had? where can my vision decide; a myriad of sights and directions which i can preside on, each up or down, left or right, never or forever. which will it be? i choose to look up and step forward. there are no appendages that will hinder me. i am not lame, nor dull, nor mute. i was made ready.

and yet, this sword that was shaped, it was well crafted, but made to cut a man down. what man can make a sword? and so, having created the sword, i can only choose to cut myself down, an act of creation that is an act of destruction. a weapon born from my hands to annihilate myself. but i am no sword, but a sheath. and when we return to the madness of our round, where we slap and spite another in competitive love, can i remain that sheath, or will i be a scabbard, the shadow of the blade, a weapon on its own? who dares to force that wielding?

and even now, He is among us, treading lightly, as is the way of doing, never more than a whisper in my ear, a nudge in my back, a blow to the face. never will you see it coming, the blow as delivered, nor will you see it leaving, the blow as delivered. but you can know that it will always come, always; it is coming, always. and that blow is no cut from a sword, but a plain reminder through pain. it reminds you of who we are, what we are, and what we are doing.

even now, as i merge back into the shadows of thought, the bleakness of possibility, where is that glimmer of light that i was just now reminded of? how can there even be such a thing? you and me, all of us, we are all in this darkness, we see to the end of our fingers' feeling, we taste what is placed in our own mouths by each other, and we trudge blindly, groping; my hand in yours, looking in every which way.

there are bubbles in my being, effervescence beyond my understanding, and i cannot stand or sit still, i am in fact shaped, well crafted, but i am no sword. i do not cut, and i do not destroy, but i am well wielded, supple yet firm, neither whip nor rod, as gentle as a hug and as tart as a slap. i am nothing but myself.

and thus will the wrath be called down, and thus will our anger be met, just as after the thunder falls the rain. and thus does my heart melt for you.

small sacrifices

Over there was the woman and that other woman and the girl. Like peas in a pod, yes, one long pod, long enough for that woman to fit in. Enough is enough, though one's thoughts can't easily be heard, so fear is no object.

Having returned from displaying past prospects, how heinous, enough, she lets herself return to the desired, or so is desired, object of her attention. Behind ticks the machine of her true attention, wrapped up in his machinations, his melodies a drive for his soul. What is that? What soul is to be decided on, one of non-importance, for the audio quality is quite well. I myself cannot match such skill, and yet my heart definitely can, I think, but enough. But the mechanical pieces click on and on, so perfect, and yet that alone is simply not enough, but enough. What is this?

Her neck is craned back, the people all have their own problems to deal with. The fiddler now approaches as I retreat, a drive of passion but of motive, enough. To wait, that is simply the charm. Yes. Yes.

She is quite the pretender. Enough. You have your own problems to deal with.

Sometimes the problems, those problems, they are so frustrating, no, so confusing. What is it? I have often asked myself this question, and I have only been presented in return with despair and no desire to gain understanding. Envy, that is what I have for the problems of others, no, those problems are merely hindrances, impasses to be passed. Is that what attitude I ought to have?

I wonder, enough. At times I am so amazing for not mouthing my pain, enough. It was that first word you read, and now you stand on street corners in your mind; it is with shame that the great fall. Enough.

By now the playing has quieted. Let us level the playing field, and let us fail at what we are trying to do. At those times, my failure surprises me.

One by one they are decreasing in number. What exactly are numbers, anyway? There is now quite an imbalance, fewer annoyances, enough. You have no basis for any of this. Where is it? That object you have called the heart, that does not click, mechanically, but nor does it teeter drunkenly, but at best, when it knows to be saved, will leap and bound to the tune of the Spirit.

And now the number is far less, even in flavor, for the past flavor was the flavor of flavors, just as a collection of collections, but now the flavor is sweet, maybe agreeable. Enough. Rhetoric is overboard in this situation, and so are your opinions.

And in order to accept things, I will need to do as I have seen for my heart is not well nutritioned. Feed it scraps of emotion and productions of my foolishness, and it will do as it does now, lie desolate, but with the fodder of text, of words, I can hope grow fruit there. Enough. Fruit is not bait.

Enough.

An entirety lost.

To place my soul where it is headed, even on its own, what is that? Tom-foolery. The sounds of olden times, classic, they waft around the room and it is revealed that not all are cut from the same cloth. Instead of this red stitch here, a yellow weave is in place over there. And so on. And so time wears on.

Physical comfort is nothing to the comfort received in the heart, but what source for that comfort is truly appropriate? What is real comfort? Is that enough? What is enough?

All I know is that my heart throbs only to certain tunes, and well, that her's does as well. Maybe I will do a little jig, for I am oft comforted by the presence of physical dependence, a mirror for my own dependence, the crutch that my heart can lean on and still dance freely with joy. And that is enough.