whine :: prev :: next :: So anyway, what does "emotionally healthy" mean... I'm convinced there is no such thing. For a person is either raw and feels everything, Or they build walls and cages and devices to keep out the truth. Again, my light has been seen, my wares displayed, again, the fish has taken the bait. Two worlds, two spheres of reality, in a chaotic orbit around the same sun, one green and lush and full of potential, the other, a beautiful array of colour on the outside, but empty and barren beneath the crust. Two travelers, on different roads, far apart, seeing each other in the night, finding their roads closing in. One has purpose and direction, the other aimless, yet cloaked in song and imagination. I am conditioned to believe that my life will be marked by failure, that I am destined, somehow, to bring nothing but thick, expansive darkness, draining life from all I encounter, leading the charge to the pinnacle of hope, yet too late to retreat, those who follow find it only a dive into despair. I see now that I am eating my proud words, for I am full-circle, in familiar surroundings. I again am looking to the future, to hopes and promises and dreams, and completely unable to live in the here and now. I again am running, racing, with blinders on, in a fury to discover who I am and what is my place, and in the process getting cuts and bruises on the very scars that had almost healed. Again, it feels as if I am half-awake, on the ground, my head having smacked the pavement, blood leaking into my eyes, clouding my vision, making my nose hot and tingly, as I watch all that is meaningful like sand slip through cracks in the floor, distracted by glitz and glimmer and the stars dancing around my head as right from under my nose all that matters is stolen, and then suddenly the hypnotic noise ends, the veil of half-light is lifted, and I see the vanilla landscape created by my ignorance. Somewhere, something went wrong. Somehow, a gremlin slipped in, and started making shadow-puppets on my soul. Someway, a masquerading angel of light, lit on my bed post, and read me worm-infested stories through the night. Where is that mystical mirror that let's us see ourselves as we truly are? Would I see that I'm trying to swim (again) when my arms have been hacked off, or perhaps I'm running the race, with feet chopped in two. Where did the dream begin, when did I fall asleep? that's enough for now... © 2002 (18 july) john r. chase
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