On a good day, I have less to write about. Because, truly, pain and desire are the potent mixture that fuels my poetry.
But on these days of contentment, I find my mind slipping to the thought of you. Whomever, you may be. Whether I’ve met you or not. Just the thought that these are the times I want to share. The darker times I need. These are the times I want. If the difference is clear.
Today is a day in the sun. A few hours of good. I wish I could share them with you in my arms.
I’ve never been a fan of astrology. Not for the purely scientific reasons but because it attempts to translate the universe on the large scale and narrow it to the small. This makes its predictions necessarily broad and vague. Plus instead of giving information it tells me why something rather than what or how. If I’m answering why then I look to science or Intuition. Why is an internal journey outside of definitive questions and answers should be sought in the same vein.
Instead, I prefer the Tarot. Which is not to say that I allow such a thing to dictate course and action. Instead it is a tool. A way of looking outside through a internal lense. The Tarot uses Jungian archetypes or rather Jung used archetypes found in the Tarot.
An archetype as spiritual tool can be thought of as a embodiment and a filter. It moves and changes but it does so within a defined structure. In many ways an archetype could be considered to be a piece of the collective unconscious made manifest by our desire to know. This embodiment is never more obvious than in the tarot.
Why the discussion of divination techniques?
Because I favor the Tarot, I draw a blind card each night and have it interpreted.
Tonight it tells me to be careful in my interactions because the effects of them may snowball or be magnified. That even a compliment may grow beyond my capacity to contain it. To which I thought, well though, that’s what I want.
I want to say something and have it grow. I want to pay a compliment that blooms into so much more. And telling me to watch my words… Well most of the time I am very conscious of my words.
But I appreciate the check. Sometimes I go so far beyond what people are ready for that I do more harm than good.
And, I can be cruel when bored. Another thing I try to channel. Cruelty has its place. As does kindness. Though I weight towards the romantic, there are all kinds of romance and I’m flexible in the expression.
So, Seasonal Affective disorder is a thing. And I have a version of that. But I’m weird, so mine kicks in during spring, the days are longer, and most people love that. Me, I just want a bit more night. A bit more clouds. I want it cooler and such. And really my path falls into that too. One can hardly worship night and Winter and not be affected by its opposite. So, I’m a bit more prone to depression or overreacting. If I’m going to overthink into the ground, it’s a bit more likely during that time.
I really only notice it in counterpoint to after the summer solstice. When I can feel energy flowing in, instead of out.
I feel powerful and more myself, more focused in this half of the year.
It’s just how it is.
a broken memory
spins at the edge of my heart
cutting away pieces
saying what might have been
blood spilling from mouth
so bound up
in the screaming of my heart
I barely hear you say hello
I want to hear you
Give this wavering line
This movement of sand
This soft latex
Breathing in like summer wine
Summer dies in slow gasps
While winter builds piece on piece
Tell me your thoughts
Invite me into your memory
Winter takes its first step
Take my hand
I want that look in your eyes
That look of speculation
That says “I wonder.”
I want so much more than a look
You speak of yourself as a storm. As if to warn me away. And in doing so, fail utterly, if that be your goal.
I am He who walks between. I speak with the embodiments of the elements, I cavort and hold friendship with those of air.
I follow the path of a lord of Storm, of night, of Winter.
You speak to me of your storm and I think, “Perfection.” Be you a storm. Strike wind and in fierceness know, in me you are home.
Should you care to make a place with me. Storms are not to be feared but loved. Shouted in joy. And should they calm, spoken soft words to and made ready for when next they stir.
I’ve got no idea what I’m doing most days. Just getting through, just getting on
Some days I wish I had stayed asleep. Had never loved…and lost. I knew who I was then. What I would do with my life. But I was loved and I was lost. And those doors are long closed. Memories I can’t even share. Secret lives, no matter how far in the past are a burden you never put down.
I feel like I traveled in a time machine the hard way. By living it. By sleepwalking through it. Clawing my way back to some new chance that eludes me. Maybe because I want it so much. Maybe because I hold on so tight. Maybe because I can’t let go. I feel like I’m starting over when most people seem to have at least a semblance of an idea where they are going.
They’re making future plans and I’m just trying to plan for having a future.
And yet I look at them living lives and I don’t understand them.
Passionate weirdos and artists and nerds I get. I don’t understand the earn money to earn more money to buy vacations to keep going to the job you hate to keep the marriage going that’s stable but without passion. And still, I look at what they have and I’m envious.
They’re living their chances and I get a few but never know how to get past the start.
I keep starting over and over and I’m always back to this place. Confident but alone.
Wondering what’s next.
Wondering if all the possibilities are in the past and all I have are these words I scream in the wilderness and these days that pass so slowly and so fast.
I have this reoccurring feeling that I sleep with someone in my arms. Their head resting on my chest, hearing the beating of my heart. We’re home. Together. We are each other’s home.
Maybe it’s just a dream. Maybe it’s something else. It’s one of the few things that comfort my sad heart. I hope, if they are real, it comforts them too.