Dear Anti Diary,

there is nothing I can say, safely.

there are changes and motions and stillness

that have left me naked and stripped to my bare organs;

the heart being the evident one.

what can I do now with this?

dress myself up? 

keep all hope down?

there is no home yet. no place, no heartbeat, no whisper.

I have buried this many times,

it resurfaces as if it was a gore tale.

It comes out, almost shinning its light

to face my own little darkness.

I hate that I love. 

yet I live because of it.

I re-member, and arrange and continue,

awake, barely.

trying to weigh my feet down I find myself,

after all these years.

No more an astronaut I wish to be;

but I still wonder, I still look at the sky.

You know? I still write, how ironic.

I still am who I was, 

but less. much less. 

and with it I have not become more.

I use the word I still. 

(is it even considered a word?)

I battle my thoughts with your logic.

I silence my own naive narrative,

because,

well,

who knows why I am even allowing it.

I question my intention every step of every way,

even though I have no way.

Lost as it were, moving slowly,

in rhythm with the desire of not wanting more distance.

I died. I did die.

Just like love I still try to resurface.

Every so often I smile. bot not for long.

not an adult smile.

because there is no real reason to.

not with a broken heart. 

a heart that should be empty by now. 

but it is full,

of you.

And I carry that weigh, that life that never happened.

That night, that day, that phrase, that word, that whisper,

that touch,

I re-live it to live.

I have yet to get sick of it. 

at least as much as it got sick of me.

you are still my unique source of inspiration and admiration,

after what I can say now, all these years.

as they passed, they have changed the world,

the seasons,

my hair, my skin

my age.

But it has never changed

my heart.

after all these years.

I do not hope for love to return, because it has never left me.

what I bleed for is the unrelentless need to direct it

in this life to its rightful owner.

and it happens,

organically, naturally.

it’s a release and a mystery 

driving itself towards need and want.

and it unravels at the speed of light

and the thing takes shape

and form

and life

of its own.

It’s a thing now. above, beyond and within

me.

It is a thing that exists.

Despite my best efforts to train it.

and let it go.

and turn it into a flow or words

and use it to build

another brick on my wall.

It wont bend,

It wont obey,

it wont listen;

and I wonder,

if then it means I should listen.

If i should fall.

a leap of faith,

onto the unknown.

calling my name,

a name I am not known for.

Of Being

 

I know this happiness

is provisional:

 

 the looming presences—

 great suffering, great fear—

 

  withdraw only

 into peripheral vision:

 

but ineluctable this shimmering

of wind in the blue leaves:

 

this flood of stillness

widening the lake of sky:

 

this need to dance,

this need to kneel:

 

this mystery:

 

~ Denise Levertov  ~

You yourself and I resonate tonight, live

I cannot seem to find it,

you know.

I have lost it, not misplaced it.

It was here at one point,

I know, because I can tell the difference;

then and now.

I used to dream upon it,

call upon its powers and

wish.

I wished and dreamed.

The circus did not face me;

I could think of

‘something better’.

But I lost it.

It was there and then it was gone.

My heart let go of the string,

just like that.

Broken it could no longer hold nothing

but itself,

barely.

Hope was gone.

Long, lost, gone.

Finding its way I suppose

to a place where it can shine.

Yet I still check

from time to time,

to see if it comes back.

Not today, not again.

Silence is golden,

and so I wait for rain.

here we go, she said loudly. And I was surprised by the energy it emitted, her sound was blasting through the walls of my body. Who are you? I asked. What are you waiting for, she responded.

Her whole body responded
with a certain delay.
His touch had taken
an electrical journey
through her
ending with a piercing
wisdom to her heart.
She stood still
for what it seemed a lifetime
then the tears ran like rivers
flooding with a storm.
she then shivered,
reflexes in her muscles
made her smile,
and blush
and cry
at the same time
in the same space;
containing all the Universes
at once.
She had forgotten to breathe.
she gasped for air
and found his eyes.

Silence
as all the dead stars.
Silence.

stillness overcame her;
The eruption had ended.
But the fire was lit.
Hotter than a thousand suns
it moved her,
towards him.
She leaned her now light weight
on his hand.
She felt the blood
running through his veins
by the rythim of both hearts.

She knew then.
As she knows now.
Home, finally,
she found.

Forever to be stored
on the cycles of life
and dead.
Through and despite
time.
It’s that moment
in no space
that marks
the beginning
and started

the end.

All that is mortal is but a symbol.

I am no-body. Yet I am some-body. what you perceive of me is a set of limitations measured from what I struggle still to show.

I desire no label, nor I set myself up to believe I am determined by the patterns I act upon while I am not conscious of life.For when I am, there is no doubt.

In free-dom, not viewed as the opposite of bondage, there is no worry nor fear, for there are no thoughts of the education of this world

that filter the flow of energy that I am, that is all.

that loves you, undyingly.

every night I forget to take my heart off;
I’ve been wearing it
while I sleep.
I’m lucky
it has not suffocated me.
yet.

you know this from within,

you breathe, sweat and dream

the peaceful knowing of love.

it is the reaction it causes

from absence

that is violent,

a war, against time

and life.

the dis-balance of 

dis-pair.

the light seeking darkness

to kiss it and care for it

the dark seeking light

for redemption.

the fire burning 

the water dying.

yet, amongst 

and despite the casualty 

of every breathing moment,

at the deep end

lies the hope and the love,

untransformed,

untouched,

sacred. 

III

Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
Wtih slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plentitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

      Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Dessication of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movememnt; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.

IV

Time and the bell have buried the day,
the black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher’s wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.

V

Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

      The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always-
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.

The four quartets. Bunt Norton.

It’s easier now,
in the winter… missing you,
the earth mourns with me
for all her little birds and greens.
But when they all come back…
when they come again and sing…
what will become of me.

- Emily Dickinson to Susan Gilbert, Feb 6, 1852

Look,

he said.

As if I had eyes to see with my heart.

I could only hear the whisper that traveled lightly

until it landed in my mind.

I felt nothing, for a  while.

Then,     I felt it all.

Then,

I could tell what was real, 

and what was there.

It’s a mystery, at least to me,

how one travels through this

without losing all there is.

There is no world that can contain,

both this feeling and the ratio of the mundane.

Its not magic,

it can’t be

for magic is the illusion we are made to see.

I don’t have eyes to be blinded

by looking at  one spark;

Still,

 I hold a heart that beats with the sacred,

and the damned.

We, spirits alike,

write feelings to sur-vive.

we are quiet, almost in des-pair

trying to find a way 

not to  lose ourselves.

But what is lost is not what we seek;

but the quest for the unseen,

that realm of the senses we can 

tune in.

leaving us always breathing

in the -in-between. 

I don’t have eyes for anything real.

Words fall short on this land,

they fall and break and thin their way 

yet , I spend 

-precious time-

weaving their meaning into forms,

desperately trying 

to create a world,

that at least

 I can call my own. 

Look,

he said.

and I just cried,

for I will never see

life through his eyes.

A new year. As if time could be new.

Sunrise over this city on the lowest apparent to the eye point of the sun in reference to the earth we inhabit. Astounding. This city remains big, so big.
and at the end of the day the sun will fall, quickly.
All that’ll be left is the stars that I could not see without the darkness of the night.
I never doubted their presence, even when I could not see them.
The sun will break tomorrow; lowest as it can be. And it’ll rise from then on. Darkness will be balanced slowly with light.
An this year will end. Not like the last.
And time will move its cycles so it can restart.
I will move with time. But my heart remains still with seasons’ past.
I wished to be home for the sun-rising; home as I’ve never known.
I wished this year not to be so silent, killing me with its lack of words.
I kept on wishing, 2012.
I wonder if there’s room for hope.

gravity might claim

the weight of my body

and push me to the ground

so familiar to my tears;

But I keep the pressure

alive,

pushing forward

and maybe upwards.

My heart wont stop

even though my mind

tells it to;

I let the asphalt

know my presence

but no solid can

call my name.

A whisper,

carried through my soul

is the one owner

of what I truly know.

Another name,

from another soul

can claim my life

my heart

take away the pride

of walking knowing

I am barely

still alive.

I do not know how it goes. 

It’s in days like these
that I miss you the most.
For no particular reason,
or cause.
It’s in days like these,
where the noise of the world
says nothing to my ears;
yet I would listen to you
with my heart and my fears.
Days like these, and the rest
are just days with no echo
to reflect.
time can be perhaps counted
in lessons
but not when it comes
to missing you.

We are shadows
on the word of light.
Yes,
living in the cave
of illusions
made by our mind.
As the torch
we hold
only shows
the narrow path
of our limited thoughts.
And we must venture
through the dark
not knowing
that the real sky
doesn’t wait
for us outside.
We recite
the spells
Of our times
praying
the mantras
someone
versed on the wall
of this maze.

Two little hands on the bend,

they wait for me, not patiently.

I put my love on my sleeve,

this moment calls for it,

loudly traveling in the silence

of this particular wind.

Look at me child,

let me see myself reflected in your eyes,

I’ll hold on to that image

that sings songs of a future

pending on my words.

I love you,

but you know that;

as if the universe

had sent you a letter

long ago: this is life.

take me child by the hand,

show me the way to your world;

I’ll build a home for us,

a greenhouse

and the treehouse of your dreams.

you did not change my life,

it started with your little form

as it grew on this body

that knew not its purpose before.

thank you, child.

you’re my little master and my guide.

I’ll use my hands to hold you,

until I’ll wave your way goodbye.

I’ll be with you, within you, forever.

For all I know,

all my truth,

lies lightly over you.

from hell I was able to spell words ;

from hell I wrote the saddest thoughts

that wanted out.

from hell I dedicated my heart

to the art of dying

and staying without return.

I should’ve used my blood,

as I was bleeding love.

yet I used the shadows

the casting of the light

to bring me a little deeper

a little further

into the dark.

I loved with my veins open,

no voice to be heard.

I bled the blood of suffering

while I embraced the spell.

I cried not tears of salted water

but seas of despair.

I loved not to be seen,

hiding under the bed.

I carry sounds here

deep within my-self,

the echoes of the silence

of the lack of whispers

of my name.

I regret not living,

not bleeding

real blood.

Loving in the shadows

does not bring much more,

that the eternal nightmare

of surviving it

without a soul.

I am the living dead.

hear me say.

I gained a silent voice

that dares not say

the one thing important

that is his name.

not even to myself