I hope that every person can live with a purpose in mind. As if we came to this Earth from another plane of alternate reality, a parallel dimension, with a goal, a quest. This quest is the whole reason for your journey. The path is dangerous, difficult, brutal, cold. But if you look past the thieves and robbers, the dark shadows, you'll see a child, a deer walking in the forest. That child, or that deer, or maybe that lone flower poking up from the frigid soil, reminds you why you're here. You are bigger than yourself. Maybe we are physically confined to these bodies, but spiritually, mentally, and emotionally we are capable of reaching out far beyond the contours of our skin. So we are always aware of that thing at the top of our lists, but to get there we have to take small steps, sub-quests if you will. You will know if you're on the right track if every breath you take, every move you make, reminds you of that light at the end of the tunnel. It's your job to get there, but not without illuminating the path first.
I wait, but it's hardly that. I live. Today for tomorrow, yes, but it's still living, cultivating the person I will become, like bacteria in a petri dish. It won't be overnight, but after several weeks, a fairly impressive colony will form.
What does it mean to care? I guess it depends who you ask. Holding a door open. Smiling. Sending a friendly text. Asking, and being genuinely curious, "Are you alright?" Giving some dorky gift for some dorky holiday. Listening. Helping to plot revenge. Calling just to say hello. Hugging. Kissing. Offering a hand. Saying those three words when your whole soul means it, withholding them when it doesn't. Thinking. Researching a cure. Writing. Dreaming. Saving a life.
Caring is all of those things and more, or less, or none. It's whatever you make it out to be. Just because two people like the same style of shirt doesn't mean they'll pick the same color. So when you see that other person, don't think "I don't like that color," say, "Hey, I like your shirt."
It doesn't matter if you have to visit 10 stores and spend the whole day searching for the right color, just make sure you wear a shirt. No one should be walking around naked.
I know what shirt I want, but right now, it's still a bit big on me. That's alright, I'll grow into it.
'The noble heart that harbors virtuous thought,
ReplyDeleteAnd is with child of glorious great intent,
Can never rest until it forth have brought
Th' eternal brood of glory excellent -'
Edmund Spenser
It's not exactly clear to me why the human heart compels the mind to write or speak in verse. There must be some fundamental thing which we share in soul, apart from anything else at all, that urges all other senses to compose as such. For a long while I thought it was arrogant and pompous, or a waste of time, to speak in rhyme and to describe things to intently. How lovely it was, then, to learn not long ago, that the very first philosophers in Greece, whether pondering mathematics, the arts, nature or history etc… all recorded and presented their work in rhyme! O happy, happy was I, to know that one I was with such a ancient kind, and that my heart was true at last, all the effort was not for show or waste.
I was reading some Keats earlier, my favorite even over Shakespeare, Blake or Tennyson, for his whole being is poured into every single ounce of his expressions. I don’t think Keats ever wrote or spoke something without passion and not worth knowing or enjoying. Freely I admit a grateful filled love affair with his spirit. Such beautiful imagery had he, such a dreamer and wonderful imagination too, combined with masterful command of the language, oh forget about it, to die for.
True genius makes the almost impossible, perfection, seem effortless and natural. To contain the whole world in a line, and then to know afterward, how simple and undeniably true that is, without need to touch it one bit, for it fills you with pleasure and ideas of a fantastic and delightful kind. That is what distinguishes immortals from mere men. Inspired by those before and those whom I adore, I have written down some poor attempt at poetry. I pretend not to claim this as anything worthy in itself, for it’s fought with error obscure and bizarre, puerile even (the dreaded phrases critics use to gently decline a literary work).
Nevertheless I have so spoken and composed, so I might as well share
There is a character limit here too! Boo.
ReplyDeleteI stirred from sleep, silent and still,
Night air cool, with a curious chill,
Bitter sweet felt, to flesh icy numb,
But sickened my soul, ill into glum,
So harshly borne, for so very long,
In poor little heart, all that is wrong,
A heart now awake as never before,
Seeks promises washed upon shore,
To sink deep into the sea, all misery,
So sun and waves can flow over me,
Void of darkness, or cold to be had,
When happy air, refreshes the sad.
Some will brand these words mad,
Of naïve youth, blind, to pity as sad,
Then I declare, I am not mistaken,
By values that most have forsaken,
I confess still, true love if the ideal,
Honest life, no thief quick to steal,
Or impress with boasting, false lies,
Attracting filth like shit does flies,
I, dreamer with some modest pride,
Sweep swiftly all swindlers aside,
Warm in covers of poet’s disguise,
Sphinx stare confuses hidden eyes,
For wit is to live, aware and well,
As souls are offered for easy sell,
Quick bucks ruin one’s good name,
But who cares, if all act the same?
I care, ferment private revolution,
Not sold with image of institution.
I shed tears of pain and tears of joy,
ReplyDeleteAnd at all times I may shout ‘Ahoy!’
Gloom & doom my tears can’t seed
When mind and soul idea do breed,
From passionate roots pure and true,
Deigned to help man in his fair due,
Of giving back some real gift of use,
To lessen a load or loosen the noose,
How foolish then, and silly it seems,
To give up peace for lucid dreams,
That hold vague notion, divine sent,
Imagination, of a most noble intent,
Meant for our eyes and our ears,
To dispel rumor and banish fears,
A hand for others toward better life
With as less trouble and little strife,
Upon this harsh earth we call home,
Only a fool wants to be left alone.
My mind oft calls out within the night,
To some unseen figure away from sight,
Sharing whatever we share between us,
With hardly any like or need for fuss,
To tussle and rage lengthy without end,
In search of humble and playful land,
Where sprits dance in joy filled content,
No pity there or sorrow to even lament,
As there with the dew we sweetly slept,
Upon a field of blue as something crept,
Like dim dark noise from under eaves,
Born of sigh from which a heart heaves,
When no faint motion can be such seen,
In all colors of radiant awe-like scene,
That’s red & blue underneath pale skin,
To trace faint edges of some hollow brim.
I gazed a while and felt as light and free,
As though calm water of a soothing sea
Washed my soles with a care so gently,
Creating picture conjured there intently,
Imaging my fancy to pluck a daffodil,
Ah, alas, to pick a flower is but to kill!