Becoming zen, more zenned out.
No find behind a door waiting to be unlocked.
No elusive shrine that you discover after staring at the ceiling long enough.
It’s not an answer.
It’s not a pathway.
It’s not a space.
Nor a trance.
It’s nothing but you.
The you that your heart beats for.
The you that scratches an itch.
The you that smiles in such a special way.
And the you that forgives you.
You can be fragile.
Lots of people break.
Pieces so small they never put them back together.
Peace is abound.
But so fickle to hold.
The far shore for which you sail.
The setting sun.
The dusk of your days.
Sunsets are beautiful.
But they are the end.
Ends have little certainty.
Except that they are not before a beginning.
Perhaps this is yours.
I doubt it.
But every self-help book tells you that you must believe it is.
I hate self-help books.
Is believing enough.
Is knowing un-required.
Is knowing a luxury.
One that life cannot afford you.
Or can you not afford it.
Given the choice.
No one chooses certainty.
Except the man who lives in regret.
Choices ruin your life.
But you don’t have one without them.
Don’t break yourself over ensuring you always get one.
When blowing up a balloon, excitement running rampant.
“I can’t wait to play ping-pong with it” she says.
“I’m giving mine to my mother when she picks me up,” another second grader exclaims muttering.
Time goes by blowing, with breathlessness and dizziness defeated by strict perseverance.
Exerted, jaws aching.
Eyes pressurized, like that of the balloons ever expanding.
Both balloons pop.
Faces splashed with its own slobber.
Surprise reflexes immediately all encompassing.
On the verge of tears from freight.
They recollect and acknowledge the other.
They succumb to laughter.
And looking into each others eyes, knowing this is their secret to keep.
*I would like to acknowledge that the beautiful image is not my own.
And the angels fought, they fought for god.
They fought for the ideals and the pureness they saw within themselves.
They fought for the goodness they sought to water the world with.
The Oracle in The Matrix hands Neo a cookie after insinuating that a decision will be forced upon him. A situation will be imposed on him in which he will need to take action, to make a decision. A decision that will impact upon the outcome of this hero, the outcome of this hero’s world. A decision that extends so much further past the extent of the hero’s insecurities, vulnerabilities and misfortune. A decision that transcends the hero himself.
I sit watching birds fly around me. Contemplating what I’d use wings for if I had them.
Simply put, the hero sacrifices, the hero uses wings to fly towards his demons. Facing the mirror that reflects himself to himself, his purest of adversities and self-doubt. This hero attempts to save Morpheus, regardless of whether he understands and has learned all he could have about the limitless Matrix beforehand.
The hero learns that he is required to act regardless of whether he has the understanding to do so.
The hero learns that understanding the repercussions of any action they take is out of their grasp. Th hero learns that attempting to understand these repercussions leaves an individual hopeless, flailing in a dark void that can only imprison, serving to offer only endless questions to unsolved answers.
In order to live in reality, action needs to be taken. To dissolve fear Neo needed to risk losing against Agent Smith. One needs to risk losing and exposing oneself to further fear. The type of fear that can make you nauseous at the ponder of it. The type if fear that doesn’t ring the doorbell before entering.
Inevitably, there is always a Morpheus that needs to be saved, there are always fears to overcome. Use your wings for heroic purposes.
My thighs and backside ached. Sitting in that chair helped with the lower back though. I had sat monitoring the cities pulse for hours. Sip of tea now, sip of tea then. My cocoon.
She walked in. She was tired but didn’t show it. Our four pupils met, communicating in ways that defied spoken tongue. Her cocoon and cup alongside mine.
Her hand in my hair and smell in my nose. Thigh and backside tingles replaced by ones received from my head. She turned with a simper, with whispering eyes that asked me to ‘steep another teapot and then fuck her gently.’
Your hands so soft,
your hands in mine,
I didn’t even begin to realize.
You held them close,
you held on dear,
in all the ways which I now know, but could not hear.
You lying there while I lay here,
our hands cupping nothing but blanket and thin air.
My head down, eyes now closed and you’re where?
Behind my eyelids,
a place your warm hands still warm up mine,
a place where I still smell your hair.