Mirrored Image

It was last summer, as I recall. I was outside walking across the yard when I saw a leaf lying upon the ground. At first, it appeared normal—but still kind of peculiar. So I got down onto one knee and picked it up. Holding it in my hand, I turned it over, then back again, and then held it to the sun. I could see little specks of water, sparkling in the sun’s rays.

I brought it a bit closer to my face; the water droplets appeared much bigger. But the biggest concern I had was with one particular droplet that was a translucent blue color. With my fingers, I grabbed the side of it and began stretching it into a much larger drop of water. I then stuck a straw through the side and began singing a song, every note echoing into the droplet, reverberating against the pliable, liquid walls.

Then silence.

“Now listen,” a voice spoke.

I put my ear to the end of the straw and listened.

“Night will fall upon you heart

as stone crashing down the side of a mountain.

Sorrow will find you from the womb of loneliness.

And blood will tear from your eyes,

letting you know the night is here.

You will seek out love,

only to find a deep, dark box that you will call home.”

I dropped the leaf and looked to the sky. Clouds ruptured. Rain fell. I fell—to the ground I called home.

The wind kicked up and blew the leaf; it settled on the ground, inches from my face. My left eye met the gaze of that tiny drop of water. It burst, shooting millions of tiny water particles outward and into my eye. “Ouch!”

What just happened? I sat up and looked at my arms: I could see darkness spreading down my limbs.

I fell to the ground and died with the dammed that call their box home.

The Spectrum

Look into the window of my soul, into the eyes adulterated by darkness and sorrow. I will show you the spectrums. I will show you the web woven with coagulated blood that surrounds my soul, which holds me captive in my imagination. Watch as I die this slow and painful death by the hand of the words spoken to me. And watch as I am resurrected, more whole than before, by the meanings birthed into existence. Death and rebirth, a phoenix rises from its ashes.

A spectrum: two points lying on either end, connected by pieces of something. There are physical, perceptual, and emotional spectrums.

I shall start with the physical of light and dark. Consider a line: one end labeled point A and the other end labeled point B. Point A is darkness; point B is light. And in between lays everything that completes the spectrum—molecules of both light and dark, fighting for reign.

The perceptual spectrum is simply good and evil perceptions. This is the most dangerous; for it is within the realms of this idea that one decides what is real and what is not.

Let me share a brief anecdote with you. Several months ago, I was riding the bus home from school when the bus came to a stop. A few people climbed on, one of which was a woman—probably 80 or so. The seat next to me was open, open for her to take, but she was hesitant. When she finally reconciled with herself that there were no other seats available, she sat down next to me. Moments went by and then she began talking. Small talk at first, then she asked me what I was going to do with my life. I explained that I was a writer and that I intend to continue drowning in the dark waters. She told me she was once a writing professor at a university and that I must be careful. I was confused. What did she mean? She explained that if I dwell in the darkness for too long, I won’t be able to come back. I told her I don’t have a choice. And she said, “I know.”

The perceptual spectrum is based upon perceptions. But what’s more, these feelings and ideas will become too real if one doesn’t have something to hold on to. They will over power one’s sense of reality and one will succumb to the depths of the underworld: the place where the soul dwells.

I am just a listener, listening to the voice of my soul. I have no choice but to travel within and have faith that my silver cord will remain attached to reality. Good and evil is what it deals with. Ideas. Perceptions. Clues. A labyrinth of chaos.

Come with me. I sit on the front stoop in the mornings and drink my coffee. Our house cat sits across, staring into my eyes. What will she do? I get a morbid image in my mind of her pouncing up and sinking her fangs into my neck, sucking me dry. And then the image goes away, and she remains just a sweet little cat sitting across from me.
Evil and good.

She is, simply, different holograms of my reality.

But why? Why must she be the anchor of my perceptions, what I compare every natural event to? Perhaps because she has the ability to shift into either point A or point B—she can be either good or bad. Or perhaps it’s because she examines me with the same attentiveness that I examine my soul with.

I know this: she remains my friend, even if she kills me. And what’s deeper, she remains the link to the emotional spectrum—our anchors remain the link.

Hot and cold.

Within this spectrum lies a duality of every emotion imaginable. Hate, sorrow, loneliness, love…

This is the arena directly linked to one’s moral. And it seems a constant battle.
Consider the man with everything in the world he could possibly want and need. He is happy with his happy little smile plastered upon his deranged face. The face he holds, underneath, just a demon looking back. He runs into the kitchen, grabs a knife, stabs it into his gut, and rips his insides out. No more than a second later, reality flashes before him. He lies on the couch, alive, and aware that it was only a day dream of death. But he can’t get it out of his mind. It haunts him. Disturbs him. Screams to him—during the waking and the sleeping. The next day, he lives it again and again and again. He realizes he doesn’t even exist, but that this violent horror scene is simply someone else’s thought: a thought, a scene, being used as an anchor for someone else’s emotions and clarity.

He is just a feeling in the spectrum of emotion.

He is lonely. He is hateful. He is loving. He is joyous. But he can’t be more than one feeling at a time, even if for a split second. He writes his poetry upon the walls of his deepest caves—he has nothing else to do but to exist for the wellbeing of someone else.

I shall leave you with this: all three spectrums are as real as the stars are to the moon. But they’re only as dangerous as a knife is to its sheath—the spectrum of danger remains in the hands of the owner.

Snow

I look out

Across the snowy meadow of my heart

And see a world,

A world foreign to the landscape of my eyes.

A labyrinth tangled in the ashes

Of my footprints.

I see the stars

And the moon.

I see the sun

And the life—

Light unraveled through the fabric of nature,

Yet, still foreign.

I look into my subconscious,

Through the window of my soul,

And see a world I can create

With words.

A world of peace

Or hate

Or darkness.

A world consumed

By my inner most thoughts.

And so,

I scribe it.

I let the emotion flow through my fingers

And make tangible

The perceptions

I fear.

A double edged sword:

I am bound to this imagination

That gives and takes life from me.

My Father

When I came to the lord,
When I really came to the lord,
I had a needle stuck in my femoral
And dried blood crusted upon my groin.
I was a shadow looming at the foot of his robe,
Yearning for healing.
He scooped me up
As any father would
And kissed my forehead.
He looked upon my eyes,
Not in disappointment,
But in love.
He held me up to the father,
Proud,
And said,
“It is by my stripes he is healed.”
But why?
He knew everything that would come to pass in the future.
He knew, today,
That I would be struggling
With my own fleshly DNA.
And yet,
He still decided to make the investment,
To work the process of change in me.
The difference is,
Today I belong to him.
He was just wanting to call me His.

 

Cracked spectacles

I’ve tried to see into your heart,
To unravel the cryptic pattern
Of your desires.
To look through your eyes
And into the window of your soul:
I cant,
You won’t let me.
You remain just out of reach,
Just out of sight.
I’ve waited on you
Like winter for snow.
I want to let go
But I cant part from your smile,
From your touch
you throw aimlessly.
The touch,
Though lifeless,
means the world to me.
That Burns my pain away
Like burning glass purifying my soul.
I know.
I know
If I let go,
Ill feel more empty
Than before.

Falling and Reaching

He was just a man. He fell through heaven’s veil, landing upon the soft, dew soaked grass. An explosion. Dust falling. Sparkling. I giant canvas holding stars for him: his treasures. Frazzled by what had just happened, he slipped into a trance and remained just an object in the field. (Perhaps it’s our state of mind, our conscious mind that separates objects from living organisms, not a pumping heart or breathing lungs.)

Morning came early the next day. The sun’s colors shined down upon his bare body as translucent molecules of colorless heat. Yet, he could see the colors of the world. Why can’t I see the sun’s colors shining, but its colorless rays allow me to see the colors of this field, of these trees, and rocks? He thought.

He wandered over to the outskirts, near the trees and away from the pond, to a small hole in the ground. It only appeared to be about a foot deep. He stepped in it, the dirt crumbling beneath. A much larger hole than I had presumed. He thought. Perhaps my depth perception is the product of a chain of assumptions: If I had not assumed that hole was only a foot deep, would I have reasoned it to be much deeper? This can’t be.

How far is that sky? It seemed hours before I hit ground last night; it must be far. But what if it’s close? What if that space contained pockets of low gravity, varying the inertia pulling me to the ground?

He picked up a small stone and threw it into the air. Watching the rock fall at the same speed throughout its course, he decided if there were low gravity pockets, they would have to be much closer to the sky, much further from him.

I just don’t get this… Wait! My depth perception is defined by learned measures from past experiences. Yes, I got it!

He ran across the field to where he had landed last night. The grass, pressed down in the shape of his body, was a bit darker. He slowly traced his hand around the silhouette as to gain impressions from where he had fallen from. Cold…dark…lonely, but I’m not happy hear. So happiness is a measure relative to unhappiness. And above is heaven. And below is hell. But I couldn’t have fallen from heaven, so how did I fall up.

He closed his eyes, trying to gain insight into where he had fallen from. Heaven and hell must be a parallel time continuum: maybe I fell down from hell, into heaven, and down from heaven to hear. God, I hope I’m right.

He ran back over to the hole and began stomping his feet inside, making the sides and bottom bigger and deeper. Then, he jumped in.

He began falling, deeper, further, until he hit bottom. Now what? This did not go as planned.

 

On his right hand side were three holes cutting through the dirt, leading away from him. I’m not going to take that chance again, regardless of anything.

So he remained just a germ for the earth to consume.

 

The question I pose to you is this: what is of our existence? We are born into a world unfamiliar. We grow up, constantly seeking answers along the way. We gain small insights. Some are worthwhile, some not. And the ones who are addicts, seek to escape. We enter into the world of drugs with the misconception that we are invincible, that we are different, that we can handle life on our own. And we fall. Deeper, further, until we hit bottom.

The problem is not hitting bottom; the problem is not having the courage to find a way out.

These laws

At night I wander through
The valley of my dreams,
I am invincible,
Untouchable.
I am who I want to be,
Who I decide to be:
I am not me.
I am me
During my waking hours,
Apart from my Dreamscape.
But which is right
And which is wrong?
Surely the common laws of morality
Don’t apply in the dreamworl:
Morality is relative to culture,
To environment.
So, then,
Which is right
And which is wrong?
I must be subject to
Two sets sets of laws,
Two sets of standards?
I’m certain
I’m subject to only one law
Only one truth:
To stay true to my soul,
In all of its entirety.