It all starts with a story

“You are not a monster. The world is monstrous at times, and there are those who would have you believe that you are terrible by association.

You are are not Worse for your association with the world, but it is better for its association with You.”
Paraphrase from Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson

This made me cry. Made me howl in pain. Because, is this not what people who really know me have been saying. And I’ve been saying sure, yes, you’re right. But I didn’t see it. Couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see that I was not, in fact, a monster. Until I read this. Until it broke me.

I can see how I may have been wrong now. That I may not be a monster. Or not the bad kind of monster anyway.

We are all thin veneers of lies and pain and truths we’ve woven into who we think we are. And if we crack the surface, the darkness can spill out or in depending on our internal equilibrium. But the darkness is not evil, just as the light is not good. Rather a balance of forces. And choices. We can choose to be honorable. We can choose to take care of ourselves and our friends and family. To show kindness to strangers. To see those who are unseen. We can choose to hide. We can choose.

But only if we accept that our impact on the world is tangible. And if it is tangible, would we not prefer it to be a thing of beauty?

It’s odd, really. My family sees the boy I was. And, rightfully, they see the darkness that consumed him.
But I am not that boy any longer. And still they cannot see the man. But I know… I know others do. And now, I think I see him a bit too.

Bright light spills from the space my heart used to be

Your voice is a deep pool of laughter and bright
I’d spend my days crafting words for you to speak
they create shivers down my spine
And wake desires with but a innocent turn of phrase
Life is but a series of moments strung together by your presence and the undying hope of forever
In this life or I will find you in the next
Until
At last
We belong to each other

Steven Brust, Vallista, a heartbreakingly accurate account of loss.

“You mean you don’t keep composing letters to her in your head? You don’t keep wanting to tell her how wretched you are, but then you don’t send them, because what if she took you back because you were wretched? How terrible that would be, you tell yourself. When something happens—something funny, or interesting, or sad—you look around to tell her about it, then you remember. And you  want to tell her that is going on, but you don’t,  because you don’t want to add to her burdens, only you do want to add to her burdens, and you hate that you want to add to her burdens. You wonder if she’s seeing someone else, and you hope she is, and you hope she isn’t, and you hate that it matters so much. And maybe you’ve found someone else yourself, but you worry that it isn’t fair to her, and then you worry that you shouldn’t worry about that, and then it infuriates you that you’re spending so much time thinking about it, and so it turns into aimless grief.”

A response to an ill mannered jest

If someone ever harmed the person I pledged myself to they would burn. I would tear down the world and reap a hurricane of death and pain. I would call armies and madmen to my banner. I would bath the world in blood until they were returned to me. No impedement, not even death would stop me. No creature, man, or god would dare stand against me. Everything I am or ever will be, I would sacrifice for their safety.

I would tear down reality. Nothing would bar my way. Not for long.

Twirl slow turn

To want for wanting
A simple kiss burned through with needing
Desires unrealized for the dreaming
For who would kiss the flame

It seeks to devour
To transform self and else
But needs a fuel for burning
Having lost all truth itself

Comfort and steady
Steals the hope from our hearts
Holds just enough
Just barely
To keep one foot in front of the other

Forward is the only way to go
Complacent whispers a story of good enough
That in the night rings solemn
A mournful bell slow to wake
False ring and disappointed half smiles

Never quite forgiven
Unable to forget

Just kiss and wake me up
Slow acceptance of a beaten
Beating
Heart

Silk or the sword

The tenderest of truths
is the faintest slip of a lie
A truth withheld
becomes the well of tarnished voices
Until
At break
Effluvia pours free
Drowning dreamer and dream

A truth spoken
Cuts clean
A blade slick with blood

Cut my flesh
A thousand times
I’ll not fester in secret

I’ll be your truth
If you’ll be mine

Karma likes to play games

Challenge these victories
That float away like dust
Like words left unspoken
Can’t tell if it’s you or me
Won’t give in to simple lust
Give me the complicated, the broken

A nuzzling wolf
He drinks hearts blood
Seeking to heal
But scenting that limping
The wolf wants its way
But I’m a man too
I get to choose

But choices are difficult things
Wanting them flawless
But nothing works out that way
Settle for understood and forgiven

Best to give what was got
And given

Simplicity itself

It’s simple
I love you
It’s simple
You’re beautiful
It’s simple
We fit
It’s simple

Except its not simple
It never is
But complicated is better
It’s more real

Simple is a dream
The thing we say that
we want before we know
what we want

It’s difficult and messy and perfect for its imperfections.

 I don’t want a fairytale

I want what comes after the curtain fall What comes after happily ever after

I want all that you are
I’m not delusional, I’m just a romantic

One true love

There are 2 types of people. People who have lost some they romantically loved and those that haven’t. Let me be explicit. A person who died, either by violence or not.

The people without this get to have the luxurious illusion of the one true love. That somehow they have the secret. That they have their forever, their true, love.

On the one hand I am envious of their illusion. It is a warm place. A safe place. On the other, I fear for them. What happens when the glass bubble shatters. What happens when they know loss. Do they, then begin to wither? For one thing to be true for so long has the danger of becoming truth. And Truth is hard to recover from.

Those of us who knew loss early, know that each love is different. Each love has its own existence, its own feel. And, sadly, there is no one true love. Each love is flawed and each love is perfection.

Tragedy wakes us to this. We know that the one true love thing is a myth. We know because it can’t possibly be true. And, for myself, why I hate anything that speaks of predestination or everything happening for a reason. Things happen because of chance or because someone took a course of action. Often, several someone’s. But there is no grand design moving us all to some predestined ideal. This is another illusion.

I’m not saying that there is not powerful, strong love. I’m saying that the one true love is a trap. A lie that comforts. Treat each person with dignity, respect, and affection. Treat them with desire, if you desire them. Act courageously. Love completely.

But don’t fall into the logical fallacy of ‘one true love’. It not only isn’t true. It must not be true.

Poetry and the future

I wrote yesterday about a poem I had written for someone who I longed for who never quite returned my affection.

Today, I write about all the future poems that I will dedicate to the Goddess of my Heart.

I know, I know. Every artist dedicates at least one work to a current love. It’s inevitable. We are passionate about our work and passionate about our loves. It is inevitable that the two would intersect.

But I’ve dedicated many works to her already. Anything Hash tagged GMH is about or for her. Dedicated to her.

I’m a romantic. We all know that. But I know she reads these. And that is the best feeling. That she reads what I write. In some ways, everything I write is in dedication to her. She captivates me. I sometimes feel like a complete idiot. Because I write her and I ramble, as I am wont to do, and I think I sound like a fool. Maybe not, maybe I just sound romantic.

It’s the duel nature of the artist and critic.
Perhaps, I’m overly harsh in this regard.

But here I go, rambling again.

Poetry. It’s sometimes as little as a sentence and I am something of a minimalist, trying to distill down to the essential words. So that there is space for the reader to project themselves into the piece.

With every conversation
Your words etch into me
Taking up residence
in my safe places
Where my becomes our