silent strings

the dictation is super strong even though there are no words, there is no song…. the chords that are not playing overtake the audio and the audience sits applauding, oh the intensity of the spectators felt triple fold the under the pressure of the encores and the lighters waving around and putting it all under the light and all over again, these feelings, having to fight back the emotions but they are always in control so the are just let loose and maybe will present some healing, i am hopeful….. but while the smile on the face of the one tearing it all down walks around flaunts around there is more stone thrown on the ground and it is crushed by the “greater” and “better,” what will never be built …. forced to watch a structure be remade by architectural guilt, in a world that is conditioned by hurt and making sandcastles out of the driest of dirt… foundationally impossible and yet still it is tried, and it is failed.. and it is swept under the rug and declared clean and repaired, fully detailed. on the outside appearance it is fresh and giving young and determined and the crumbling remnants are left to the mouse with nothing, troubling…..how much so little it appears to one, to the other is much, too heavy, the smallest of items to some are checkmarked too large a burden to carry, on the backs and the hands and the hearts of the wounded loved, no matter how high i try to rise above, there is a constant leveling a spiritual unsettling and bringing down of elevations, and there is less of me and more of the jealousy and less understanding and more impractical demandings of my heart to understand and move on and be free, and it still looks down and sees the strings ….

processing, reflections, and phoenix

im processing …. and realizing there is a pulsing in the brain that is now abscessing, and simultaneously fracturing the essence of structure, …. breaking down all the zoning and the breakage causes a puncture,  the very core of stabilization… the shaking of the foundation created the shattering of the perfect reflection… only seen in the mirror of self preservation…. preserving the perverse and twisted of versions, the self visualized identity, … as the remnants lay at the floor of our souls debris… the destruction occurs naturally…. only chaos comes from the natural being while intentionally, reaching for the metaphysically, observed,  and released,  for the physical attendee to record visually… purposefully arising from the ashes with intent and poise, silencing the piercing shrieks that explode from internal noise….. with louder and more quiet, with peace and partaking of personal riot, the duality sits in one seat but has a co pilot… flying this aviation device in natures glorious defiance, navigationally pleading for direction or guidance …..while holding out for the results of this test, the years of experience are the only reliance….. relying on the self, based on what was once true, only leaves making the fool make a fool , the fool sets the new standard of what not to do, raises the bar of what to make sure to do,  ensure the new place in the opportunists new dormitory, a broken improvisation of “new” in an old story, a horror story, where peace is misplaced and love is brutal and gory, engorged, in self servitude and division of self sustainment…. watching the self try to rebuild within itself is devastating entertainment…. without the leading of the game of blame,  it seeks its own demise… falling further into the fiery path no longer disguised, and once again, out of the ashes with a smile, the soul will rise

Compartments

And then there are those times in which you hate everyone who has a baby who survives labor and delivery. It’s this fraction of space and time that occupies or rather seem to invade your lifespan in a blink of existence. Of course you want everyone to survive or transition with ease and as whimsically as possible.

Let’s face it though, it makes me cringe.

Every. Single. Time.

Except for when my best friend had her baby. I anxiously awaited news that her c section went fabulously and that little man was well. Then as soon as I knew all was well, I got remarkably resentful, and not of her (not of baby either). Now it meant that I would forever look at this precious realm of innocence and shroud it with the constant reminders of what we were going to relive again. Our eldest and our youngest… all the firsts our “lasts” were going to share close together… now replaced by all the firsts and all the nevers.

Somehow I have to really compartmentalize all the compartmentalized compartments into even smaller sub compartments to stay sane and claimant on our relationship.

She gracefully understands this process.

This is a gripping effort on ripping away the pain hold  that grief grabs on to, desperately.

It is incredibly frustrating to be angry with someone for just being alive. It’s not really even them though. It is the seemingly blatant disregard for my soul that the “creator” would constantly allow these situations to unfurl at my wounded base. Which, by the way, is at such a weakened state that the slightest breeze, even intended to be comforting, is trembling earth all around. It is natures gamble in regard to whether or not the structure will remain standing. The structure itself has no plan, it just waits.

There is rarely a day that goes by that doesn’t hold a note of laughter sounding off behind my every attempt to breathe quiet to my brain. In every essence of “just be” there is the subtle waft that lingers too, with an “on your guard.” In the constant effort exerting from my everything to enjoy anything, there are equally what seems like exorbitant amounts of endless prodding of my personal patience practice.

And along comes another compartment.

The section where I have to put the realization that there will always be more babies. Also, I am able to love and cherish my best friends baby in a way that i may not have before… Perhaps he will need me in the future and the little box of subconscious resentment (which, i don’t actually resent this baby or his mama – in any way, truly) that has been built into my normal will be quashed and I can let babies be born with a warm heart… but until then, I separate my pain from my love, for his little innocence is the only current hope I have to reclaim love for the cycle of life. And soon, I will no longer be able to provide this type of life cycle, which, I’m building a compartment for as well.

I didn’t know it then, but I do now…  Archaea’s death was not just hers, nor “mine,” but all the little intricacies and interweavings of what life is made from. The vein of life and death are the same and it all flows together. Every movement is intertwined with realities and possibilities and limits, and like energy, we are exchanging each others movements all the time. Thus creating another opportunity to present more pain, confusion, distortion, for every release, focus and clarity.

Every baby’s birth is my baby’s death and the death of me, our lives, reality….

I wait.

I build compartments.

I long to build one to stand on and let birth, babies, and unicorns be my open platform of personal power!