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.
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.
What I want more than anything is you.
Have we met?
Am I waiting for you or you for me?
If you know, tell me. I dislike waiting.
I’m looking but not looking.
Not seeking but open.
Not persuing, except in dreams, and how to tell one dream from reality.
I can feel you in the world or is that my heart beating, resonating to a frequency you feel as shivers down your spine?
Have we spoken and I or you said something in our head which, if said aloud would have made all the difference?
Is it better to speak as if there is no tomorrow that matters excepting those seconds that pass while in your heart?
This eyeless sense of love moves me like a blind cave fish seeking warmth.
Or am I merely deluded, and is the delusion that love exists and waits for a word mere delusion or a hope?
And is a hope better than the truth of lonely nights?
What do you say when all the words have been said
When the sound of your footsteps walking away seem to echo
What do you say when you are still hopeless, still deeply, deliciously, precariously, in love.
When you tell them every day but only in your head because they are gone but in a maybe temporary way and your heart can’t let go.
What do you say?
Love is a conundrum, a puzzle I can’t solve, a path you cannot walk alone.
Are you so present in my head because of my feelings? Is it metaphysical and our tie is feeding back to me your feelings? Are we just fools? Me for loving, you for silence?
Or am I only allowing the deep river of my feelings to cloud what is real?
Sex can make you feel wanted, make you feel desired. It can bring pleasure and pain. It can make you feel something when you are consumed by nothingness.
But it’s empty. If they are gone in the morning. If there is no connection beyond the physical. If physical compatibility is all you have, then you really have nothing.
There has to be more. I know, from a cismale that’s blasphemy. Believe me, that standard fucks with our brains more than you know. The thought that sex is supposed to be the goal. It’s really unhealthy and it’s pervasive. And it’s false.
I have never felt so empty than after a ‘fun’ and meaningless hookup. Doesn’t matter if it was vanilla or something more. Empty. If it was BDSM, at least there’s aftercare. But it’s not enough.
I want breakfast and discussions. And shared time and laughter. Sex should draw us together. Make us more connected. Not obliterate connection.
My days of pointless wandering are over. I was only ever trying to fill the empty well of her passing. And, as I wake now, seemingly too late. I realize all that drowning in physical pleasure was just a mask for the deep pain of loss.
I seek better. I hope for better. But I fear that I have been lost for too long. That those who would accept me, are no longer available to me. They’ve found their lives and loves. Or stand broken, and unwilling to take a chance on someone who was broken too.
How many times can I say I love you only to be met by silence?
Is it the words you don’t want to hear or is it the emotions?
Do you believe that I must be lying?
Do you believe that telling me that you won’t ever feel that way will make me leave?
I know you don’t feel that way for me.
I can’t help how I feel.
I’ve tried destroying it.
Tried suppressing it.
Tried drowning it.
But it’s always there.
And, even if you told me that you hated me, that you never wanted to talk to me, never see me, never, never never…
I would be silent. Would never contact you, never be there. Because I respect you. But if you need me, you can say and I’ll be hurt. But I’ll help. Because I can’t stop loving.
It’s my fatal flaw.
Of course, if I’m with the person who loves me as I love them. All you’ll receive is my aid, my advice. Just because I can’t stop loving does not mean I’d ever hurt a person who I love for you.
My heart is a fool, my soul dances to his tune, and my mind imposes what order it can.