Of Butterflies

We are not
like the butterfly
who elegantly dance a while,
free and flitting,
fickle;
they are gone.
We are much more clumsy;
we stumble,
we fall,
but our airs are truly astounding
we came away as we crumbled,
we came together
we crawled.
Our desires so much more complicated
and eternally,
beautiful

An extract from the Book of Pain

It is a strange fate, to endure the sufferings of a "broken" heart: to continue to sit and eat your breakfast in the mornings, to enjoy the many amusements and company of friends, to live each day, as always, as never before anything had changed- but to do all this and feel that each pleasure rings a little more hollow; as though the blissful purity of such enjoyments, and trivial matters, had been extracted. It is as though a shadow had settled on and swallowed what makes such little things grand, and the greatest: empty. To live with a heart that beats erratically; with a ghost for an echo of your own palpitations; a fractured mirror to receive a warm embrace, and at night; to sleep most wakefully- woefully- with hot lurid tears and perspiration like the throes of passion set to ravish the occupant who finds no home.
   It is a terrible fate: a broken heart- where even the most meaningful consolations only serve to sever the chords that free the torrent that follows: to engage the self-deceiving sympathies and render one lost in oblivious contemplation, melancholy, and hurt.

A mystery, now solved

What strange phantom that surrounds me… It lingers, this spectre, about my being, pressing firmly upon my senses like a mask. This heavenly veil, thin like a Venetian knife, cuts deep into my brain, skating across the banks of my memories before eventually setting on cool waters as an uncanny fog. A mist as seductive as Dracula’s own, it bears all the charms of Venus. Devil, or ghost, or God, it wafts through open windows on the breeze, trailing me with a scintillating scent of wild flowers. I breathe in, and in, and in, taking it deeper into my self, to wear as its shell, only to expel it at last because I am forced to by the crushing pressure that grows in my lungs… It flits pleasantly, and it is gone. Again, I breathe, luring and drawing it in with my near silent demands for more- I will not be satiated until the mystery is solved; until it takes upon its form, and I will hold it to me, cherishing it, as though its only purpose were to blanket me in love.

December

Only because December sees our year's cyclical end, and with it, the dawn of a new one.

I sit down and consider this day- “my” day- just as I do every day; reflecting on my self-imposed duties and ways of leisure to get around them, taking every day exactly like it is: by day; one day at a time; day after day, like some anthropomorphic herd shuffling unconsciously along, seamlessly and with no end in sight. I do not daunt on the future. I do not think of my problems or monetary concerns. I think only of the period of 24 hours and how it will be passed most painlessly, if I can: most pleasurably. This is my only plan- my only ideal. There is no quest for glory or salvation and no desire for the fulfilment of ‘dreams’, there is only the 24 hours, and sleep, reviving each time as a new season until I reach the advent of my own December, where I might then, sleep eternally

It's all Greek...

I've always enjoyed reading about the ancient Greek's; their philosophy, their epics, their pantheism. Excuse the pun of the title, for it's a cliche of a phrase, but I'm incredibly tired, and the following poem relies heavily on Greek mythos- a little touch of the Odyssey within it, about finding yourself in a place where you feel like you don't speak the language of those around you. So you see, I've always admired their language, but sadly, I've never understood it.

There are waves that rise between us
Rise and fall, crashing with tremors
that shake the rocks from the surface
of the Earth.
Through these waves I try to steer
like a helmsman of the ancient Greek
tied to mast, bound and deafened
and made blind by the spray of the sea
and the descent of the night.
I rely on my logic; my lexicon
and find myself awake in a world
of curious hieroglyphs
upon a shore of a strange people
whose language I do not speak.
I am kept apart, as if a leper,
and taken in for my sensibilities.
I sleep outside, under the stars, and dream
of my life, my love, my family
and my home-
wherever it may be.

I thank you, because I burn.

This is an extract from my novel- I've written it just now as I feebly attempt to stifle the urge in my stomach to scream and tear something apart. It is not the solar body that I thank, though it does burn, (and I appreciate that) but rather a body of a different sort. I feed myself into this machine, and this is my silent vengeance.

Pleasantries were exchanged, cordially, as he passed people who also lived in their fixed-state lives. They entered their cars or left shop fronts, walked their dogs and paid their mortgages, all as they had done the days and years proceeding. Perhaps they would go on holiday this year, he heard. The world is not a safe place anymore; best not. They were all like undisturbed liquid in a vast container, still and unspoilt, constant and savvy in their boxes whilst they slowly evaporated under the strength of the sun. That sun burnt like a self-sustaining, amber ball of rage. It ate itself to prove its own potency, growing fatter and fatter as it died away. It eviscerated any and all that got too close, just to make a statement that it was to be left alone to its own devices; left alone to burn itself away, left alone so that it could scream at the top of its voice how much better the world was for it, lashing out with a cancerous fury because it knew nothing else other than hatred, and still, it was loved. How we misunderstand that great god of the sky! How little we know how it feels, and yet how similar are our own fates… to consume and consume in a bid to satiate a never ending hunger for more. Our thirst for freedom, for identity, for power, wealth and knowledge: our thirst for equanimity! We burn like that sun, until we explode and shatter ourselves all over, and in dying, eradicate the futures of those who depend on us, in which, lies the fate of the whole world.

For love, for lies, for duty.

To some, that is; the inordinately perceptive, such as I, there can be pains of knowing too much. Not just a simple, surface matter of being pained by the intellect; its growth, or a ruinous piece of knowledge that damages one’s esteem, but of knowing a truth that another may attempt to hide or cover up with falsities or un-ordinary action. This pain is one that causes a physical manifestation in the heart and the stomach, like that of a fatty deposit or a ‘too-sugary’ sweetness. It is the pain of wanting to scream and denounce: “Stop the excuses! I know your reasons, now don’t be ashamed!” For, what reason is there to be ashamed of the truth? But the altruist begs that we cause no embarrassment for our peers and partners, so we allow them to act, laughing along in our mock sincerity as the dagger of unspoken truth plunges deeper into our gut and rends us inside.

   Live now, my love, for your lie and allow me to die, knowing your secrets- kept safe and secret, still.