Eternally.
How long is that?
Forever and a day.
Surely that is too long, right?
Always.
When does that end?
Until I know when, I’ll carry on.
Until I know how, I will turn the now into the future;
And the future into the past.
Interminable. Apparently.
emotions
Hope’s message
I don’t want to see tubes coming out of your nose; or your face lacking cheeks coloured in rose.
I don’t want to see wires attached to your skin; nor your arms stretched out so thin.
I want to tell you off for trespassin’; I want to see you read Carl Hiaasen.
Or, shout at you for hiding your homework; watch you frustrated shouting berserk.
I want all your worries, testing times; problematic homework, and accidental crimes.
I want to learn alongside you; watch you grow strong as a Sky Blue.
We should be together, I apologise; when you’re older you’ll realise.
Wise as it is, life ain’t simple; especially seeing your still simple.
Finally, I believe we shall laugh together; walk on hills whatever the weather.
Those tubes and the fear can’t last; hope you recover ever so fast.
Prayer.
To pray is to say, to wish fear away.
Not just this day, but tomorrow and the next one.
To push aside worries and wrap you in warmth, in our arms, you sway.
Feel our love and all your troubles are gone.
So be it. Amen.
Time.
Time waits for no man.
No man should wait for time.
Nor woman.
The fine line.
Key worker and essential cog one day, discarded the next week.
“Valued employee” and “fine example” until you’re not relevant.
“Outstanding” and “innovating” before being outdated and obsolete.
“Indispensable” or “central to the team” as a budget slash deems your release date now.
Punctual, loyal, and attentive to fine details, followed by succeeded and outdated.
Moving on up, rising to the top, but all of a sudden, tumbling and spiralling downwards.
There’s a margin. A wafer thin gap. A sliver of light between dark and lost. A piece of hope dangling on the thread of chaos and change. Which way it blows is not always your choice. Which way you respond, use your own voice. A pathway here or a tunnel there. Give in, or go on?
Go on.
Nothing to Everything.
It took everything from my system. All energy is sapped. It hit me like a tonne of bricks. A freight train to the soul.
I lost comfort.
Hope vanished.
Life’s path took a dark spiralling turn south.
Goals and ambition kicked into the gutter.
Shattered connections.
Unhelpful, unhealthy solitude.
All I could see was emptiness and fear.
A vacuum of a chasm.
Empty demands and is spoken of in snide words.
Lost belief in myself.
Hurt. Gutted. Irrelevant.
Life being a cunt. Tortured. Shamed.
You gave me everything, every smile and every belief. You fueled me. You lit the lighthouse once again. A defibrillator to hope.
You gave comfort.
Life took a huge mountainous climb towards the sun.
The constant goal and need embedded.
You asked for nothing and embraced my confusion.
Impressive reality and challenges ahead.
It’s a wonderful miracle.
Without judgement, without demands.
Gained a soul this last year.
Excited. Overwhelmed. Relevant.
Life is a joy. Pleasured. Pride..
Storm in a Teacup
Don’t conceal it. Don’t hide it. Don’t fear it. Don’t fight it. Just put your head down and right it.
Don’t give in. Never surrender the win. Block out that enormous din. Just get yourself up and head for the win.
Don’t shatter your dreams. Avoid tearing at the seams. Watch out for low beams. Just look for the place with good teams.
Don’t slide about. Don’t scream and shout. Don’t ever make yourself doubt. Just let it all out.
If not, what have you got? Your thing, your place, your lot. You’re more, are you or not? You’re here on this pale blue dot.
Now go get it yourself! Trust in your health. There’s more to life than wealth. Put doubt firmly on the shelf.
In a pickle.
Financially, mentally, substantially.
In a pickle.
Unquestionably undoubtedly, profoundly.
In a pickle.
Historically, periodically, profoundly.
In a pickle.
Oddly, secretly, openly.
In a pickle.
To the letter, by the books, across the board.
In a pickle.
No trust fund, no benefactor, no obligation.
In a pickle.
Without reserve, without doubt, without care.
In a pickle.
Dark thoughts.
Take it all for yourself. Pool up the wealth. Cripple those in ill health. Myself. Each self. Yourself.
Why should anyone share? It isn’t supposed to be fair. Have power, will scare. Less care. What care? No care.
Copy it, market it, sell it on. Small trader’s hopes gone. Give in to each don. A con. This con. The con.
Hardened by grimy soot. Tough under each jutted foot. The struggling empty gut. Howling mutt. Growling mutt. Mournful mutt.
Crumbs shouldn’t drop to the floor. Beggars asking for more. Wounded families, sore. Greedy poor. Filthy poor. The poor.
Darkness crawls through the light. Crushing all that is right. Turning summer to winter’s night. Strangling delight. Sapping delight. End of delight.
Rebellion #2: Homelessness
I was ripped from my womb, sent from warmth, from my creator, made to work to the bone for the inflator.
No longer again to see Mother nor Father, in workplaces far away, sent out long hours day after day.
Through taxes and energy bills, through blooded sweaty torn up hands, ploughing out profits for someone else’s lands.
I carried my owners, along with my leaders, and prayed to the sky that God may receive us.
No answer from upon high, to my pitiful cry, as I crept out to deny my sigh. Time was to fly.
The strength of those who fed us with kind, as we wallowed through despair, without comfort of mind. An axe must grind.
Here, I ask of you to reflect for a while,
Along with my colleagues, in times of denial. This life has been a trial.
For we are the future thrust into fear,
And cold nights gave up some lives year on year. Year on year on year.
Remember us, the homeless dead, as we lay down, ice tethered to head. Dead.
Dead.
Rebellion #1.
I’m the rise against the odds. I’m the growl facing the sods.
I’m the vote that casts a change. I’m the matter that needs derange.
I’m the fighter in the field they want to mine. I’m the nurse fixing plasters rain or shine.
I’m the voice that they want to silence. I’m the battler against all manner of violence.
I’m with many who shout and demand new ways. I’m one of the glued-up rebellious art damaging strays.
I’m the silent protestor who annoyed the police sergeant some. I’m the leader of the change that has to come.
Stand alone, fall down. Stand tall and together, stand up for your town. Stand for the greedy and against the needy, stand opposite me, you’ll see. We’re the changes that are needs be. See.
The time is now.
Hey adventure, where are you?
I’ve been waiting, patiently and impatiently. Where are you? Perhaps, you missed me here. Hey adventure, where are you?
I know I’ve been distracted, confused and upset. Where are you? Just maybe, you’re too busy to call by. Hey adventure, where are you?
These days have been testing for me, unsure and hanging on the help of others. Certainly, you know where to look. Hey adventure, where are you?
I looked back at last year and the year before, and one before that. How come you didn’t visit me yet? Hey adventure, where are you?
Is it something I did, said or thought? Am I not the same person as before? Hey adventure, where are you?
When you call by, bring some tissues and a shoulder to lean on. I’m sure you’ll return. Hey adventure, where are you?
I’m feeling so low, blue and deep in shadow. You won’t see me outside. Hey adventure, where are you?
I need to feel the sharpness of lemons, taste the sweet cool air and smell of green life. Instead, you’ll see me between these walls. Hey adventure, where are you?
It could be worse I guess, cast off and unwanted? No letter of recommendation or wave off. Hey adventure, where are you?
Hey adventure, where are you? I need you. I need. I need you. Need you. You. Come get me. Hey adventure, where are you?
Hey adventure, where are you?
Blue. K.B.O.
23 days since the need to first go to hospital. That first wrap and support. Those X-rays and CT scans. The pain and self-annoyance. The fracture. The immobilization. The inconvenience. The anger. The rage at one’s self. The self-pity and self-loathing. The humiliating feeling. The worry. The stress. The tears that built up but haven’t yet released.
6 days since the doctor said another 28 days needed; maybe 21 to walk on the foot again. Hope is around the corner by to get there crutches are needed, and some hopping. Avoid the wet floor. No slipping. No placing your right foot down.
Keep it elevated. Keep up your spirits. Pain for a week. Codeine for a week. Bone setting traditional Chinese medicine. Maybe it works, maybe not. Support wrapped again. And again. One trip out. One barbecue. 23 days. 13 journeys to and from work. Avoid the wet floor again. Still no placing your right foot down.
For God’s sake! It isn’t bloody COVID-19! Grow up! Dig in. Dig in deeper. No pain, no gain. Call it a challenge. Growth experience. Aches without ibuprofenbfor a week. Bones grinding and aching. Mosquito bites under the bandage, maybe not so fun. Support from friends. Glorious friends. One trip out. One barbecue. 23 days. 13 journeys to and from work. Keep avoiding the wet floor. One chicken meal nearby. Coffee delivered. Friends. Support. Still no placing your right foot down.
22 more days? 15 more days? Keep going forward. Keep going. Forward. Keep buggering on. K.B.O. Without putting the foot down.
Spheksophobia
How many old dreams of the past are dormant? How many dreams of the future are yet to be realised?
The flocculant rain falls, and the howling wind calls, as he bangs his head firm on walls.
How many days drifted in and out? How many hours in light? How many in night?
The foundations of the house shake, they ripple, bend and quake, all the while his feet flip, slip and bake.
How many lights shine out bright? How many rays cast no shadow? How often does light fade to black?
The will of a man is tested, his head ill-rested, broken undigested, wasted hope scattered and shattered.
How come comets flash and zoom by? How do meteors find their way? How often do they evade all sight?
The feel of his feet grow rough and sore, unable to walk no more, lost on a map with no detail, cast off to sea without a voyage.
How does a guide find a route? How do you define what’s in a suit? How often is a path well-trodden?
The life of Riley, the hidden Eden, the leadership skills of Christ all the parts of Paradise’s Elysium far, far out of reach.
Eh?
We’re all writers putting pen to paper, typing night and day;
Singing love songs come what may.
Banging out letters of dismay;
Giving our opinions on hearsay.
All in front of us, our display;
Making sure we have our say.
Place down your head, just go and lay;
Eyes to the left, eyes to the right they bend and neigh;
Come month end’s wait for our pay.
Should I go or should I stay?
Passing our eyes over the latest play;
Heartfelt causes won’t go away.
In hard times, we kneel and pray;
Write that letter to the girl called Fay.
Oh sweet Fay, the next day your name is May;
Life moved on and we found our way.
Children rejoice, they jump and say, “Yay!”
No more waiting, no such delay.
Watching movies until we hit the hay;
It doesn’t really matter if anyone’s gay.
Dipping our toes in the deep of the bay;
All around the sound of that lovely jay.
On cloudy days grabbing each ray;
Talk about football on the Saturday.
Watching movies until we hit the hay;
It doesn’t really matter if anyone’s gay.
Dipping our toes in the deep of the bay;
All around the sound of that lovely jay.
Streetcat.
I feel like a roof won’t cover me.
I can’t busk under a tree.
Jobs will pass by me.
Nothing here, nothing to see.
The big issue is deep inside of me.
Confidence is my absent key.
I can’t earn this, unreachable fee.
Teaching, reaching and beseeching thee.
Fetch no path my way to feel glee.
Absence and opportunities aren’t free.
The other side: as a rotten wasted bee.
B.D.
I’m going to explode. There’s a simmering rage. It’s rising up and ever closer to spilling up and out.
The mountain of hills and volume of small plenty is what this is all about.
I sense walls and fences stand only to be broken. Each panel a temptation to clout.
Leaning forward, I imagine a shattered wall, crumbling and littered with flaking grout.
From the wall windows litter with broken glass, alongside a sagging spout.
I look to the sky and beg, “Why? Why? Why?”. Each word grows from whisper to shout.
I stumble. I fall. No one hears my call. I snigger. I grip the trigger. Should I squeeze?
Yes, yes, God please. Do it. Do it. End it. End it all. Time to say goodbye. Time to go.
But, I take a deep breath. I focus my tired eyes. The black dogs snap at my feet. I throw them a bone.
You are not alone. You are not in company. You are not your own. You are not the company.
Twitches replace stitches. I fiddle less. I flick the pages. Reading makes me feel better.
The books are my escape. The escape is what I need. The last legs. The leg. The finale.
The fear never departs. The delay must stay. Keep it all at arm’s length. Control it.
Never ever give in. The black dogs can’t win. Snap all they want. Never give in.
Hard rain.
Trapped, twisted and descending; landing seemed so far; never ending. Flushed from on high; plummeting from cold beginnings to the warm decks below.
When it rains, it pours. The heavy hard rain begins as a gentle drop here. And a small drop there. Booming on the surface. Shattering outwards. Explosive force on almost microscopic scale. The end of the flow.
Drifting by influence; winds pull and push; tugging at the deluge and its wild rush; and unending battle of elemental force; tectonics in the sky; ending the moment of dry. Neither fast nor slow.
What started out condensed; freezing and crushed together; slid out and fell; spiraling like a dog fight; drifting and shifting; catching every light; warmer now. Hot snow?
The mind’s eye. Cry. Cry. Cry. Bellow out the yell. Roar in pain. Not now. another again. Victor slain. End of the game. Ended flow.
Weepy.
For handkerchief opportunities, many of us have visited Forrest Gump and Jenny. The main character’s love life, marriage and his mother. The ending. In 1994, Winston Groom’s novel became movie legend filmed by director Robert Lee Zemeckis and starring Tom Hanks. Hanks, himself, also starred in Turner and Hooch, which again had me blubbering like a baby. When Tom Hanks cries, we all cry. I hope to see the Indian remake of Forrest Gump soon: Laal Singh Chaddha. Although, Turner and Hooch has kind of seen many remakes…
“The young doe, Marena, said, “In this very hour many of us are going to die. Perhaps I shall be one of them.” – Felix Salten, Bambi
World War II was brutal. As was World War I. All wars, for that matter, are grim. Tinged with sadness and heartbreak. Souls are destroyed. Isao Takahata released Grave of the Fireflies [火垂るの墓], set to the backdrop of a totaled urban Japanese port of Kobe. This was no ordinary cartoon. Like Watership Down, here is a movie truly worthy of the title tearjerker. It is horrific and doesn’t pull any punches. The characters are young and dynamic. Let the movie draw your heart in. The movie is wide open to multiple and conflicting interpretations, much matching the confusing array of themes.
The Angel of Nanjing focuses on the famous Yangtze river and a bridge (the Nánjīng Chángjiāng Dàqiáo 南京长江大桥) in the city of Nánjīng. The protagonist Chen Si (陈思) has discouraged hundreds of people from topping themselves. The fall downwards is about 24 metres (79′) into lethally fast-flowing waters. The Chinese newspaper People’s Daily once reported that this bridge has more suicides than the famous Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The movie is a thump to the heart.
E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial that little extra terrestrial blob of joy left Elliot behind. The movie was almost entirely shot from a kid’s perspective. It had a touching poster with an alien digit connecting to a boy’s finger. Little whiny Drew Barrymore reminded me of my screaming sister Astrid. Divorced mum? Themes we could relate to too. Released shortly after I was conceived in 1982, it would be a few years before I watched and understood this story. Yet, every time since the music of John Williams and the direction of Steven Allan Spielberg has got me over and over again. Henry Thomas, the main character, was someone all viewers should have made a connection with, and probably will never ever shake that iconic movie away.
“You are who you choose to be.” – Ted Hughes, The Iron Man
The Iron Man, as a book, by Ted Hughes was lovely and warming. As a movie, it was renamed to The Iron Giant, its big presence shook the internal emotions left, right and centre. How graphic animation can leave a viewer enraged, baffled and devastated is beyond me! The director Brad Bird and his production team conjure up magic in this animation classic.
Thomas J. Sennett: “I’m gonna drive us to Liverpool.”
Shelly DeVoto: “Liverpool?”
Vada Sultenfuss: “Big Ringo fan.” – My Girl, the movie
Vada Sultenfuss (Anna Chlumsky) and Thomas J. (played by the middle-name monster Macaulay Macaulay Culkin Culkin – yes he apparently changed his name this way) light up My Girl with an earthly romance of youngsters. One of my favourite comedian-musican-actors Dan Aykroyd is a big name in the movie, as was Jamie Lee Curtis but neither are allowed time to upstage the duo of young starlets. They pull at your heartstrings from the get-go.
“I don’t need easy, I just need possible.” – Soul Surfer dialogue
Brief Encounter and Soul Surfer are two very different movies. The former is classic cinema noir. The latter deserves to be remembered and revered for a long time. If Jaws struck fear into you getting back into the water, then imagine being Bethany Hamilton who lost an arm to a shark attack. The movie Soul Surfer dips into her strength and determination to ride the waves again. She was 13 years of age when the shark caused her to lose an arm. Her quest to conquer the waves again sees her meet victims of the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake and tsunami. This heart-warming tale explains why she wouldn’t change her outcome of life, if given the choice. It is a slab of inspiring cinema based on Hamilton’s book, Soul Surfer: A True Story of Faith, Family, and Fighting to Get Back on the Board. Released in 1945, a decade after a play by Noël Coward, Brief Encounter, has become one of Britain’s greatest movies of all time. I first heard of it whilst changing trains at Carnforth railway station in Lancashire. The music, the story and the pace really resonate beautifully when placed with the intense black and white cinematography. Like many great stage play adaptations, this movie is full of clipped words and energy. The comparison to Soul Surfer is far apart, but both leave you clinging for Kleenex. As someone who has had my own brief encounters, and lost a little piece of heart each time, there’s a real sadness and pity to this yarn.
“The future was uncertain, absolutely, and there were many hurdles, twists, and turns to come, but as long as I kept moving forward, one foot in front of the other, the voices of fear and shame, the messages from those who wanted me to believe that I wasn’t good enough, would be stilled.” – Chris Gardner, The Pursuit of Happyness
Will Smith, when not busy slapping comedian Chris Rock, can be found in countless movies. One such heartfelt piece is his recent Oscar-winning role in King Richard. But, before he played the father of the famous Williams sisters, try The Pursuit of Happyness. Son of Will and Jada Koren Pinkett Smith, Jaden stars alongside his father striving to keep tears and depression at bay. The film is a modern tale that is all too familiar to many people seeking work in the many job markets defunct of opportunity. Will he overcome adversity? Perhaps the memoir (of the same name) by Chris Gardner and Quincy Troupe might be a starting point.
It is what it is.
It is what it is.
It is what it is?
It is what it is.
It is what it is?
It is what it is.
It is what it is?
It is what it is!
It is what it is?!
It is what it is.
Is it what it is?
It is what it is.
What it is, is it?
It is what it is.
It is what it is?
It is what it is.
It is what it is?
It is what it is!!!
It is what it is.
Boundaries.
The wall doesn’t keep you inside
nor does it stop you escaping.
The range of the boundary’s grasp sit inside
refusing to ruffle or fold ever slightly like two ever strong shoulders of foundation.
The fences you make prevent you living and pay sacrifice to the freedom out of your longing reach. Barriers change in time and
ruins rise to fall, with temples and churches spilling outwardly, full of prayers for one such deity or another, seeping your skin’s
inward desire to be led and let go,
while forever knowing you carry the
weight of slumping shoulders
bound by boundaries of the mind.
Scale.
It isn’t the panic
that draws you ever closer
within its tumbling realm of vision or that tremble in your loin,
dancing upon the shaking shoulders of sacrifice.
It is the bite that remains forever itching failing to heal and settle,
a ruin which ever leaks over your skin
intoxicating the inward desire
while forever guilty mite weakens
slumping from shoulders
into the abyss.
The Fall Within You
It doesn’t take much to trip and slip when the angry dogs are snapping at your feet. They’ve invited wolves this time and they’re agitated in ways you knew as frequently possible m yet could never escape. They howl and snarl drawing nearer without ever getting close enough to sink their sorrowful rabid fangs into flesh. Their dirgeful salivating pus-filled gums drip oozing brown liquids across the foot of the bed. You feel heavy-hearted panic for a moment. Chapfallen fear.
A white hot cold like steel pressing against your mind’s eye, sliding all senses beyond control, the rage simmers and bubbles threatening to erupt to the heavens above, bringing hell to the day’s gloomy sky. Yet it won’t and can’t. You’re in a mediocre state. The best that can happen is average. The worst is equal to the best. Flailing and flat lining just above terrible but far below lugubrious pleasure. A monotonous gray scale of simply not good enough. The dour silent rage.
You know you can’t escape the wretched day that hasn’t come, but woebegone, you know it is soon to arrive. The fed up walls will fold in and the ground will crumble. You’ll slip, fall, down and tumble. The saturnine strives you had and the live you lived will be gone. The forlorn ashes of the fires burning around you will blow in sepulchral raging winds from north, east, south and west before slamming doleful thunderous bolts of lightning into the parched remains of your skeleton. That morose skeleton itself, fused and beyond mobility. Useless mirthless blue.
Hope knocks at your dejected door but the disconsolate door’s hinges have long dispirited rusted and welded to the wall. The wall has been long-covered by grim vines, rotten downhearted hanging nooses, despondent witch trial posters and fragments of a long forgotten camera obscura lens. The crestfallen wall’s dusted windows each produced Pepper’s ghosts no longer. Their cast down faded glass panes are grimed and moulded beyond shape and figure. Faded features hang weary and low, tangled in slim twine macramé. Downcast melancholy.
Stuck in a Sigh
It seems never ending. I’m trapped. I’m surrounded by a bubble. Happiness and joy have no way in. I’ve been stuck in this sigh for far too long.
I used to be active and mobile, and all the things I wanted to do, I did. Not now. I look on and see them pass by. I’m stuck in this sigh. A seemingly continual throng.
At times I see the sunrise and the sunsets. I feel it like before but it’s as if I’m outside, looking in. The great rays cast no heat my way. The sigh sits on my tongue.
I smell flowers and sense nothing. I watch butterflies dance and flutter and I sense them crash into the ground with no sound. The sigh begins but fails to fade like an endless song.
I pick up pens and they slide from my hands. The words they could and should write gather no sight. They never exist. This sigh is drowning my wish to cry out louder than King Kong.
How long can this sigh go on? I long for those sigh to fade to black. I wish this hollow pocket in the sigh would leave my tongue. I dance and smile outside but inside the sigh strangles me. It feels all so wrong.
Sigh. Silent sigh.
Life.
Life is for living; it’s for seeing; it’s for feeling; it’s for playing;
it’s for kicking a football in a field; it’s for stumbling on stones and slipping and breaking some bones;
it’s for smiling; it’s for crying; it’s for…
…missing home; it’s for feeling that tear. That tear building in your eye; and that moment you look at something so stunning, you’re overwhelmed with feelings.
You try to find the words, but the words aren’t there. They’re out there. They’re in here. In your head. But. You just can’t pick them up and place them in the right position.
Life. Life is beautiful. It’s pretty, it’s witty, it’s exciting, it’s frightening…
It’s staring into the abyss and not knowing where you’re going.
When you want to go somewhere, you go somewhere. Having a plan is all fair enough. Having no plan: just as good.
Just live the way you want to live.
There’s only one way of life.
And that’s your own.
Live, breathe, hope (Draft #1)
Muck in your eyes, surging cries, looking at then falling skies.
Pain straining your train of thought, hate free world sought, avoiding a day of distraught.
Stress says take a rest, your chest days you’re not your best, can’t even get dressed.
Stumbled upstairs, fairs not so fair for your cares, time to go get some stares.
Off we went, full consent, not worried about the rent, feeling less than elegant.
While I live, I breathe, I hope. Those hospital superheroes got me off a bad slope. Those hospital heroes helped me cope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Up once again looking down life’s telescope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Those hospital heroes helped me cope.
Knees a quivering, head all shivering, doctors and nurses delivering.
The news was confusing, my listening cruising and choosing, what it’s using, musing and infusing.
Shook by the broken heart, given a start, by way of observation chart.
Rating the flurry of worry, compared to a filling of slurry, bitter taste exiting in no hurry.
Human resources steadying, off for further readying, yet in a place unsteadying.
While I live, I breathe, I hope. No need to duck, dive and mope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. I cling on to the shipping towrope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Walking together on every tightrope.
After the manic half hours, the room drained of flowers, friends turned away after hours.
Left with my thoughts, my personal dreadnoughts, gunshots casting lots and lots.
The demon at the foot of the bed, fear felt instead, I could have been brown bread.
Jabbed and prodded until sleep, a peak that weeped in heaped seep, knee-deep in thoughts that go deep.
Slipped in and out of shut eye, thoughts indivisible by, unable to oversimplify.
While I live, I breathe, I hope. Reach out for the good bathroom soap. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Thankful for the stethoscope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Knowing today is just a kaleidoscope.
Who am I to tell you what to believe?
Who am I to tell you what to believe? When I can’t picture the ideas you conceive. Every day you bend, kneel and pray, but here I am with thoughts hidden in grey.
What do your Gods speak to you? How can you have faith in if it’s true? Do animals and plants have belief? Perhaps they’re all to lucky to avoid grief.
What is wrong? What is right? When does darkness stop and become light? How do the lost become the found? Must it take circumstances so profound?
Who are they to tell you not to believe? They can’t feel the life we’ll all leave. Resurrection, dedication and minds so set. Always believing, no sweat for regret.
The hum of the crowds all drowned out. Knowing how and where, never in doubt. Eyes to the sky, devout until the last. Shadows of worry forever outcast.
Their words, choruses and hymns echo. Through halls, walls, valley calls they grow. How did the lambs find their leader? Must they nod or bow before their reader?
Who are you to tell me what to believe? My mind is free like the air I breathe. I pass with peace but no direction. Each duty comes with no selection.
What I choose I can’t quite grasp. The paths I lead cannot all clasp. The roads I drive cannot all go on. Each lane merges and bends to one.
Destiny and fate call my name. I don’t know the end of this game. How did I get to be so alone? The decisions alone were mine to prone, groan and bemoan.
[scrawled in Kumbum Monastery, Xining, Qinghai on 19th July 2021]
Grasping doubt.
Maybe I should, maybe I shouldn’t.
I wish I could but I feel I couldn’t.
I look deeply into my dreams.
They all don’t seem what they seems.
Parts of the perfection have no direction.
Each and every ambition is littered with defection.
So, I sit back, relax and just float along.
Knowing the words and tunes but making not one song.
My actions, my words don’t let me show it.
There’s music in my soul I know it.
Doubt bites at me, it knifed into my soul.
Black dog edging, tearing away at my lifelong goal.
So, what’s stopping has stopped the beginning.
My head is no longer a fit place for winning.
Stop.
Carry on?
ACTON28: AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC 