Within the folds of wind-blown fields,
Ripples through the sea of gold,
That of wheat is made.
Gilded by the full moon’s glow,
The sea is blessed with silver.
Come the morrow the day will dawn,
Upon the Harvest season.
A man can dream,
Can he not?
Dream of things beyond,
the bitter winter,
Or summer’s blistering heat ~
To crave a shift in season,
I need no other reasons.
This guys has put into words many of my own thoughts, what he says speaks to me and if you lend him an ear you’ll come out feeling so much better for it. Check him out here.
It is easy to view the world as a place of darkness. It does not come as a surprise that our hearts are similarly shrouded when we keep them behind barred doors fitted with the kind of security that would make a supermax prison self conscious. Neither is it surprising that those of us accustomed to the dark fail to see the good in light – after all, if light truly was a good thing it would not be so blinding.
It has been said that I have a bright heart and a warm aura, but I often feel the contrary. I used to be adrift in the darkness of my own soul, a part of me still is and always will be. Even those of us with radiant personalities harbour our own shadow.
One or the other, it doesn’t matter. Balance cannot be achieved without both.
There is a door within me. It is a plain door, of good quality oak, and equipped with an iron handle. There is no keyhole, yet the door is locked. I know because I’ve tried to open it countless times. That, and the fact that I’m the one who closed it. It was ajar once, this door of mine and through it came things I did not understand.
However, as I move forward through life I desperately knock on that door. I crave the things I know wait beyond it. I want to reclaim what I sealed away. I want to be able to see again, like I once could.
Posted in Thought Rants and More
Tagged balance, change, darkness, door, heart, life, light, locked, Rant, soul, spirit, spirituality, thoughts
I have always known of their presence,
But it took me some time to acknowledge it.
Visions are returning too me,
Motion and dots of light in my peripheral ~
Hints of that which does not want to be seen.
There is her,
The familiar woman with the white gown, raven hair ~
And silver earrings.
She is ever at the ready with a word,
Or sage advice.
She is not like the others,
She is neither ghost, angel,
Or a being of light.
Names she has a few,
None by which I call her ~
For she is Death.
But she is also Life,
The white dress,
Is sometimes made instead,
Of the blackest of lace.
Hers is an aura of silver,
The light of the moon without the harsh brightness of the sun.
She is the light of life glowing through Death’s veil.
She knows me well.
She has seen my heart.
And I, have peered into her eyes ~
Been brushed by her hand.
I love life all the more for it.
No matter what I do, endeavor, or acomplish,
There is still something missing.
I am trying to solve a puzzle,
But I am bereft of all but a few pieces.
No matter how much I love,
I can’t shake the loneliness.
If it stood between her and the world,
I would pull the trigger without hesitation,
And murder the world.
So why, then,
Is my heart still aching?
I have suspected, for the longest time,
That what I crave,
Surpass my comprehension ~
And that it always will.
Am I cursed?
Doomed to stare at that locked door forever?
I will kick it down,
Even break the frame and unhinge the damn thing,
Before I give up.
I demand answers…
It is frustrating at times, knowing the width of the gap between our artistic aspiration and our current skill level. Every so often I reach a point where I feel a decline in progression, a reduction of pace. I tend to be a patient person, but I have limits just like everyone else. My impatience stems in the very frustration I mentioned even though I know what I have to do in order to bridge the gap.
Read, read and write until my eyes are tired, my fingers ache, and my head is spinning. Going through this particular crucible has become a bit of an addiction, and when I deprived of the sometimes remarkably painful experience I stagnate. So it is especially when literary endeavors must compete with schooling for time.
Over time I have found that I develop the most and at a much faster rate when I’m hit in the chest by life. The harder it hits the stronger my need to write becomes. Grief and sorrow have been such triggers in the past. Contentedness, on the other hand, is as much of a curse as it is a blessing – a curse but never to the point where it develops into a desire for calamity, but contentedness is not very stimulating.
Truly, one of the things that frightens me the most is the idea that happiness could lead me into creative stagnation and it is also something I hope will prove false in the future. At the moment I am content, relatively speaking, but lacking motivation. Then again, if people only did what they felt like we would never get anything done. It is high time I hauled myself out of the lazy-chair and got some real work done.