Write what you know, they say.
Souls marked with righteous regret are walking down the
street. Everyone is at least 30 years older than me. I walk to the coffee shop
alone through the crowded residential area. There are usually not this many
people on the street. It must be because the sun is out.
This winter was long and cold this year. This was unusual as
the last few years have been legitimate examples of global warming. I hadn’t
seen snow like that since I was a child. Crises were created and life was
averted for another year so that I could write something meaningful. There is a
chance that I did.
I recall a mania that occurred about a year ago that lead to
long rambling notes regarding eternity and the colors of life, which destroyed
my psyche for the rest of the year making me fritter away my time wishing that
grandeur were true. The colors have fallen back to their resting positions and
I cannot any longer see God. This is very well and good, as when I was close to
God I was driven insane by knowing some kind of truth. My mind was not capable
of comprehending what I saw. The doctors that took care of me called it bipolar
mania, which is apparently an addictive drug.
The only problem with seeing the light so brightly in my
mania is that I lose the ability to function in the real world. I am being
abducted by aliens and walking around Syria with a light saber saving the world
and ending wars, bi-locating to do the work of great spirits of white magick
and writing books and plays regarding my adventure, but I am not making sense
to the people who can see me and care about me nor actually recording the notes
of my adventure. This is a valuable source of creativity, as it serves as
cannon fodder to fill the notebooks and documents throughout the rest of the
year.
There is meaning to life. There is a beautiful cause brought
by reasonable ones. The British insomniacs are on the same page as me. There is
no reason to feed blame. There are only we, those wicked souls of prediction
and the land of the Sumers, those who lack the will to change and run away. We
are people who find fury within graceful lines. I will find the truth, of
course, like my ancestors that came to the new world hoping to build a better
life. They want things only dreamed of and brought the silence of Northern
Russia with them.
Who am I, really? Where do these parts go? Where is the one
that works to get to that spot on the horizon that watches and waits for the
passing of time? Where are the fearsome kinds of beast that take the manic witches
and drag us to the hellish spaces of darkness that come with the blindness of
mania? Who are the other people like me? Where are these strange memories from?
Where do they fit?
These mistakes must have a hidden beauty. When they speak to
me I am hidden. When they move I leave without them. Those who you fall asleep
thinking about have given you either joy or pain, and in some case both. It is
my mistake that makes these manic cries for someone to love me back. All I can
do is love someone who also loves me. There is a nice space there, and it keeps
a madman warm, even if I still smoke.
There is no careless effort afforded to me here. There is
only a need for a massive lifestyle change. This one has been happening slowly
for the last two years.
There is no hope to change my past. There is no wandering
that can bleed these wounds and fear the change of lust in the ego. Bothersome,
sacred matters are, while the righteous thoughts of faith and empirical space
wraps the reader their white linen and calls out the in light shadows without
their righteous fodder. We have no weather that bares my collar. There are
members of the fighting stance that knead the brass as it drips from my
shattered soul. I gave away everything that I could.
Gentle love shapes my mind. I cannot believe that these are
the wide-open spaces that the divine wanted every day, between the faithful way
and the shadows now. I cannot think that these divine gifts have wrapped me
without leaving a trail. I must follow their ether and try to find the love and
grace of the potential for tea in the afternoon. There is an old woman finally
whole, with white wine and vinegar while the mighty fell.
