Rescue

Tearing through these weeds,
I am searching, surveying.
A scrap, a remnant,
anything to keep my
limbs working, my heart beating.

The Stumbles Along the Way

When I went to visit my father, I could sense his struggles. I could read the lines on his face, the sprawling script telling of a man at battle with himself. I listened as his weary eyes sang the lyrics of an ode to sorrow and remorse. Outwardly, my father remained strong, forcing the laughs as they seemed necessary and going through the motions of a man who had a thirst for life. I watched, listened, and acted out my part in his charade. Like true actors in a play, we both were aware of how the third act would end.
Notification of my father's death had not come as a surprise, but rather a sentencing. With him now gone, I knew what laid ahead for me: the questioning, the dearest sympathies, the looks. Once again, I was called upon the stage, an encore. I felt destined to live my life as a mere charade, performing for others' enjoyment. My emotions were hidden well beneath the surface, and my daily activities were mere chores. I became withdrawn and ever efficient, a machine. Moving about the crowd of the wake, I was running on a circuit, a routine: greeting, weak smile, receive condolences, parting words.

I daydreamed the entire time.

Why are people here? Why is there so much sadness? My father chose to end his life. He was tired. He looked upon the wrongs that people had committed and the fakeness that consumed this world and he internalized the feelings that these things provoked. Do these people know this? Is it regret of their sins that brings their tears to surface?
Thinking about the cruel workings of this world caused me to become bitter with society, and develop a strong sense of pessimism that I had deemed a 'realist's view'. Worried about my outlook and how it would interfere with my life, it was recommended to have a few sessions with a therapist to sort out the emotions that I was dealing with and to generally assess how I was coping with my loss. I talked about my father's death, and my newfound views of mankind. Calm and reserved, I delivered my words of disgust and criticism. I was rashly projecting my own insecurities onto others, and so, it was suggested that I find an emotional outlet, anything that I would be able to truly communicate through. I was to fully and honestly express what feelings that I was experiencing.

I wrote.

Weaving in and out of the legs of my elders,
I cling tight to the skirts of those before me
and grasp for the ankles of whom I know are steady in these rapids.

When looking to should become looking ahead,
I am held fast in this equilibrium.
This dreamlike aquatic plain keeps me centered but removed,
to live as an awkward observer.

Awaiting my release,
I am growing impatient
and flailing is finding myself caught up in my own waves.
I am not making any forward progress,
so, instead, I am fighting for involvement;
to be part of that cycle once more.
But, held in this concrete are my feet anchored deep.

I do not like the view from this window,
the only view that I perceive.
There is no land to jump to below even if I wanted.
As I have been left here for years to ponder,
my brain has grown fat with philosophies,
and remains restricted to this cage
to only further my predicament.

I wrote about everything that came to mind. For hours at a time, I would compose this jumbled prose. My pen moving fluidly, I filled page after page. The more I wrote, the more philosophical I became. Deeper and deeper, I dug. I brought my therapist what I had written, and she told me what I had already known, but had suppressed.
"You fear that you are destined to be your father," the therapist declared.
I had never heard truer words. I felt restless, stuck on a railed track. Try as I might, I felt as though I could not exceed those boundaries, and even if force came to it, I would only find myself wrecked beside my path.
I never went back to the therapist. My writing became my therapy. Instead, my time was dedicated to figuring out what I thought of the world. I pondered about life, what it was, and what it meant to me. I reflected on my father's life, looking over photographs and remembering him for everything wonderful that he was. I felt lighter, more driven.
I remember my father saying, "Head up, eyes to the sky." I looked at him with doe-like eyes of admiration.
"However, don't forget, that with your eyes on the prize and your feet on the ground, you're bound to trip up sometimes."
And, I have had the bloodied knees after the stumbles, but my eyes have stayed fixed on the prize. I am going to live my life as best as I can, with my eyes turned forward, instead of walking backwards dwelling on the past. What has happened in my life has only made me the person that I am today, something that I would not trade this world for. I am living my life to show my father, may he rest in peace, that although he faltered, he did not fail. I am here, and I am the evidence of that, with my head up and my eyes on the prize. I will be myself; no one will tear me down, and I will be glorious.

I believe that life is fleeting, and we must live the most sincerest of lives.

In this beautiful world, our lives are in constant motion, and as social human beings, we have become the most excellent shape shifters. To appear to know someone, and then, like a rabbit through a fence, that person is gone. Live your life knowing that the moments that are passing can never be duplicated. The past is only the footprints that you have left behind, and they are not interchangeable, nor should they be. We are living through a unique motion picture with a projection for the world to be an audience of.

Let's put on a good show.

Aloe

They say that time heals everything,
but the minutes do not soothe these wounds.
I am still waiting for that relief,
but the ache remains present
and my breathing is strained.

Things may come in time,
but why can't it be this?

Personal Ad;

I am that embrace
that halts the fall.
I am that ear
that saves your secret.
I am that eye
that never judges.
I am that patience

that endures many trials.
I am that hand
that remains open.

Limits

The views of this world can be so restricting.

If we do not believe in it, it does not exist.

You would be amazed by what this world possesses,

if your eyes were not blind, your ears deaf.

Revisitation

Lately, it has become a habit to verbally commit myself to one thing,
and then go through a viscous bout of self-sabotage,
because I suppose that my standards for myself, once again,
fall far below what I aspire others to be.

The Comforts of Past & the Pains of Present

I know that my mind should no longer stray to thoughts of you,
but with every passing day, with every failed attempt,
I wonder if I have wandered outside of my arena,
where the dramatics were under my hand,
and my sleep was not so restless.

In this new terrain, I can see the old crumbling,
my past decaying, the bridges are burning fast.
Being rejected from one, and not fully accepted by another,
I learn to walk my tightrope, keeping steady,
aided by the thoughts of what I used to have.

It is easy to speak with someone of bliss,
the imagery is woven of words alone,
and while pleasing for a short while,
that person is still lone at night, still yearning,
watching my wants flee farther into foreign land.