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.