For My Brothers

My dear brothers,
I am your elder only by a small margin,
Yet even so, I am what I am.
Thus ~
When the storms of life brew,
and the winds carry the rain of sorrow ~
when the weight of it all buckles your knees,
I will be your bastion,
I will be your bulwark.
With tear-shot eyes, I will scream,
I will scream until my lungs heave sore,
I will bellow defiance until I can stand no more.
For you both, I will sing odes in times of joy,
and lament our grief,
For the two of you, my younger brothers ~
Because these things you have done for me.


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He said his dreams were frequent and vivid, full of life. Not so anymore. They had an air of ritual and mysticism to them, he told me. These dreams, they permeated him and even I could see them. I wonder what possessed him to spread his dreams under cruel feet. I mourned with him when he laid the fragments to rest. 

His aura is different now. I do not see it, never did, but that is what I call it. His aura. It used to brim with promise and potential. I could feel it like static across my forearms. I am afraid. I fear he has lost that something that made him undeniably him. He is like them now, and he hates that part of himself. Never told me that, of course, but that is because we both know he did not have to. 

Who am I? I have been by his side longer than any other. I have watched over him for many lifetimes. I am older than even his soul. Yet I have not seen him without dreams before. It frightens me. It is as if he cannot hear my voice anymore. He tries, the old fool. In the muted roar of the rain, secrets carried on the winds, and in booming thunder he listens for my voice. 

Perhaps a storm is what he needs. To wake up! So that he may sleep in dreams once more.

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A bottle of Sake

I am sure there are many things that pair well with a pensive mood. Light, or a lack thereof, to set the tone, or perhaps the right tunes to touch your spirit. Speaking of spirit, it is true that we often find philosophy in brew. 

While I appreciate a good stout,  the tragedy is never finding it without. Inhibition holds the key, but honesty sets free the heart. Liquid courage is too cruel a prophet, for an honest heart.

I feel there should be music to go with the mood. What better way to think than listening to emotion? Music that speaks to a person’s desire, to see with one’s ears, and be inspired.

There is bliss in finding the courage to be honest. It lies beyond the fear we rock in a cradle built with doubt.

The secrets held by a bottle of sake may be many. But when you pour the universe into a bowl, the answers will always be too small. 

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Perhaps it should not surprise me that I have to wait until I am truly alone and have turned off all the light sources, save the computer monitor, for words to come back to me. Seclusion, it seems, have always been my most dependable muse. I find myself straining, as if my hearing has deteriorated. Perhaps it I am simply out of practice and am no longer fluent in her language.

Apathy has been following me around, lurking in the background but never leaving my peripheral. It is a very odd sensation, being able to look right at it. I realize now just for how long it has been following me. I can distinctly remember a time when it was not.

There is something I have lost. I have been disconnected. I do not recall exactly when it happened or how, but the door I see before my minds I is closed and locked from the other side. The calming serenity is no longer there, replaced by elaborate mimicry.

So how do I feel? Well, not what I expected. I feel reassured now that I can see, now that I once again am learning how to listen. While it is frustrating having to learn how from the beginning again, I am also hopeful. I am being more honest with myself.

I will meditate… and I will dream again like I once did. I will leave apathy behind.

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Open the Door – Turn Me Loose

When I close my eyes I see a man running. I know that he is I, but also that I am not truly him. He is what I wish I was, a man running through the thunderous onslaught of a storm… I want to run, and laugh as the exhilaration of it fills me with life. I want to feel the static crawl across my skin, with that deadly promise of lightning. But why? Why am I unable to see anything else?

I know where I am running. There is a door manifested by my spirit, a door locked from the other side. I run through the thunder and the rain, seeking to bring with me all that is primal and ram into this door with all that I am. I am desperate to reclaim the parts of me that I imprisoned behind it.

Sometimes the door becomes a stag. I have dreamt of it before, running armed with spear and fire. I can feel the hunt in my blood whenever I run. Perhaps that is why I am addicted to it, to life.

So find me the eternal forest and turn me loose… among the wolves.

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Trepidation: sharing your work

The sun is long set and I can hear a downpour through my open window. I have experienced this night before, as have you… I’m sure. I have ink on my knuckles, blue smears and abysmal handwriting have become a bit of a calling card.

Nights like these make a person aware, do they not? I have never understood why the mind finds the roar of rain so provocative. They come with the territory, these blue-smeared knuckles. When characters bleed or shed tears, they stain our hands as we lay bare their hearts on thin sheets of paper.

How, I wonder, is it possible to capture their essence in such a vessel? Binding pages into a book, pouring our innermost joys and pains into the space between binders, is intimate work. No small wonder there is an element of woe… Tread softly indeed.

There is fear, and yet I wonder what meaning such words would have if they were never read. So we stain our hands as we bind a piece of ourselves with paper and ink, magic such as it is. In portraying others, we capture ourselves. Thus I lay myself bare, a fragment paper thin that whispers of my soul.

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Constrain My Brain No More

At times I forget the deep-rooted feeling that I am waiting for something. Every once in a while I catch myself needing to be reminded. When I was younger the feeling was a lot more intense, but at the time I was also feeling very lonely.

I used to think that it was love I was waiting for – and while it is true that I was waiting for love to find me, it was not the only thing I waited for. I am still waiting for that moment when an epiphany finally hits me. Perhaps it is the kind of thing we all wait for? The kind of thing we won’t know until it arrives?

I suppose asking for insight into how to force life to make sense is futile, no? Then again, of what use is sense to a mind that wants to break free of its confines?

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