Posts Tagged ‘darkest moments’
The Outcropping
February 28th, 2008 | 
Author: Perfectly color coordinated with the stones they clack sideways on, they eventually no longer give me a second thought, as I feel privy to that which most are unaware or simply don’t care about. A deep love for this planet fills my belly with butterflies and then weaves its way into every corner of me, as I observe the architects to my own eventual existence, wondering if there was no them, if there still would have eventually been a me. They never question their place or their purpose, and know nothing of the world beyond their microcosm; something I, in moments too numerous to count, have wished for myself.
The ocean breathes deeply and rhythmically, discontent with lazily rolling onto the shore like the tourists who randomly trickle in, preferring instead, to crash noisily against the outcroppings of rocks along the beach, exploding like fireworks in a display for no one except the sun, the sky, and the attentive ears of the dwarf palms lining the shoreline. It is too wondrous to resist, so I make my way to the most spectacular of displays on a round, flat mesa, and surrender myself to it.
Within seconds, a wave, more powerful than I anticipated or calculated exploded over me, around me, and through me, knocking me off my feet. The taste of salty water on my lips, barely noticeable under the roar of the ocean bearing down on all sides of me, swaddling me in Mother Nature’s most delicious of inventions, reminds me that this splendor surrounding me is also uninhabitable by my present form. Undeterred, my cells unbridle and shriek awake with a joy too intense to cage, as they remember their home and soak in the place I find only in those moments when my mind ceases to desire.
Dissolving into this splendor seems so effortless, and in brief expanses, I dream of such delicious embrace. Why not lie down, fall fast asleep, and let the ocean carry me away in its eternal dance? In this moment, my insignificance heaves under the weight of my solace, and my place in this universe awakens into a clarity more vivid than words could ever show. Without question, something inside me is screaming for home, and I do my best to resist, as I have become attached to this frame and am not ready to give it up just yet.
In all truth, everything is for nothing, eventually. All our worry, anger, work, and passion dissolves into the ether in lives barely more than a whisper to a loved one or a memory of something we once were, as few seem to choose lives that are free from routine, creature comforts, or the latest Hollywood gossip. If only to believe for a moment, without doubt, that these frames had life beyond them, I would have peace within this one, but until then, I choose to explore and soak in all this frame and these bones can.
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PIERCING THE VEIL
I only want to soak in all I can, tucking every experience inside me so deeply that it will wrap its glow around me, comforting this discontent soul. But, in recompense for that desire, the days slip past more quickly than my wildest imaginings thought possible. No matter how much each moment is everything I ever dreamed it to be, it’s never enough to quench even a flicker of this radiance that threatens to swallow my every waking moment. These butterflies have transformed, and what was a dull poking at my soul, has become a demon that begs my complete attention. It wakes, rumbles, grumbles, and has but a singular dream; to rid me of this rickety frame.
My thoughts are strewn with visions studded with prickly barbs promising salvation, but delivering only a wetness and warmth that soon grows cold and sticky. Smashing this throbbing noggin’ against the cement would only barely scratch the itchiest of protuberances, while assuring this hopeful fool that all I wish for is close at hand.
We all want something extraordinary to happen in our lives.
And me; I’ve always been able to find solace in my day, whether it’s through obsessing over work or music or love or artâ?¦but now, this demon is piercing through the veil, seeping into the places it could previously find no quarter. Not only did I believe it impossible for anything but my bliss to be with me in that place, I never considered what my world would be like if there ever came a time when that simple fact wasn’t true.
But now, there isn’t even the thinnest illusion of solace.
Drugs or alcohol provided me with the thickest and fuzziest of blankets, but this demon cares nothing of the tricks that granted me my peace; tricks that allowed me to feel as though the world around me had meaning and hope.
I have my dream, yet each moment now takes a lifetime to pass, as every shred of energy I possess is now spent trying to calm this behemoth that has risen up inside me. And for what? ‘ For knowing, intimately, the luscious treats that love to dig their craggy fingers straight into my veins. For opening my mind to the sheer, utter profundity that can be had within these flesh bags, these boney sacks that encase the intelligence of millions of years of Darwinian expertise. For wanting, simply wanting to know what it truly means to be awake and alive.
So, I ask myself how 200,000,000 can people be wrong. Maybe Jesus really did rise from the dead after his dad created the world in seven days, and maybe I will go to Hell if I don’t simply acknowledge the fact that I am powerless and worthless before this god who damns his own people to eternal damnation for being the very things He created them to be; human. After all, what do I know other than this demon who is envious beyond compare, who wants nothing less than complete obliteration of all that I hold dear in this frame and this world?
My Darkest Moments
We all have our dark moments, and as Artuad says; “Someone who doesn’t know depression, who has never felt the soul encroached upon the body, invaded by its weakness, must go beneath the surface, one must look at the underside; one must lose the ability to move, or hope or believe, in order to observe at all.”
For me, I feel so alone in these thoughts so often. I have many gifts and a wildly overactive brain that gets me about 4-5 hours of sleep a night. With that, I often grow weary of “dumbing myself down” to allow me to relate to particular people who, no matter how hard I try, never feed me the way I need to be fed. I have been given many gifts, these gifts of the mind, yet of what use are they to me when they can bring me such pain? This self-constructed prison often tortures my every conscious moment; in the mornings, I have to arise the second I wake to my consciousness, to prevent the ensuing torture that my brain thrusts upon me mercilessly. The thoughts themselves are less relevant than the emotions they stir; they are bent on filling me only with anxiety over imaginary foes, such as failed dreams, time passing so quickly, fears of the future, and anything else it can manage to throw at me.
When the months turn cold, this prison grows exponentially. In the sunshine, I am free to roam around on foot, on my bike, or with my top down, on the beach, in the forest, or wherever I can connect with the lush beauty that Mother Nature shares with me. But in the cold, I shiver and shake inside these walls, doing my best to while away the months until the sun grows warm once again.
I have built a world here that is entrenched with things I don’t want to let go of; material possessions that help me to create my art and enjoy my world, such as my paint, canvases, my musical instruments, my scuba gear for diving, and my flight gear for flying. My business is here, and it creates the illusion of comfort and freedom, yet I am tied to it like I’ve been tied to nothing else. And this year, this cold has left me more trepid than usual. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I escaped it two years ago; I ran off to this island to find that which I was missing, yet found only a tropical paradise, the place of my dreams, yet absent of even a shred of solace.
We all think we have so much time, that growing old is such a distant occurrence somewhere in a distant future, maybe something that we will find a way to outsmart, or to trick, or to meditate away, but no one has ever escaped. These frames slow down, they wrinkle, they wither away and die, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.
If one speaks of these or writes about them, most of your audience is lost. You are to dark, or obsessed with death, or too intense to deal with, so you are relegated to the dark corners of our thoughts, to brood silently, and alone. Every day we’re all equally marching towards death at an alarming rate, yet no on ever speaks about it. No one ever talks about this one universal experience we all share; the one that binds us all together in this delicious dance, in these fragile frames, for these brief moments.
People’s fear is what keeps them from experiencing it, but for me, it’s what drives me to live.