I was lying in bed in the early morning hours. It was dark. I often do this, just lay there most of the night staring at the ceiling. In the pitch darkness of the four walls and ceiling, wondering where I am. Feeling the pain and suffering of I don’t know what, for hours. Just pain and suffering. I can go there with no problem and cry for no apparent reason at all, and I do. The grief, the loss, the suffering I can’t bare it, but I do. And I don’t know why, where or who it’s for or from. I see faces, hear their voices. The dead talk to me, even the dead who still seem alive and I just lay there listening, my heart quietly aching tears that nobody will ever see. Sometimes the heart cries on the inside you know, and nobody will ever see a tear. It’s a special kind of mastery, just like not losing semen, sometimes it’s better not to lose tears either but to water the heart from the inside. All the love you feel for love, is yours and that is the mantra. I feel love. Not any open display, no water running down your face. But deep drowning from within. So I lay and I pray and I forget to pray and I’m empty. Just a feeling in the dark. Moving over me, possessing me, becoming me. All alone with images and memories and nothing specific just an aching unknown love. Without any focus I grieve. And this is the truth. I don’t feel like conquering you or the world, killing anybody. I used to, but not anymore. This is a softer sort of rolling over, a convergence. An understanding that I cannot stop this. Because it’s meant to be. Feeling fear, I can’t take your fear or mine away. I can only be with it and us even though it hurts. Trust, I don’t have a lot and I can give you all the reasons why, but it doesn’t matter because I’m going to love anyway and face the pain of abandonment or of simply not being enough. I’ve always felt like I wasn’t quite enough, I don’t know why. I haven’t been able to talk myself out of it either, I just feel sad because I know I’m filled with sadness and it rubs off, that’s all. It rubs off on you because we are alone under this ceiling. With only pain and dark breathing shadows that stir down below, those faces. Your face, I can’t bare the goodbyes or the loss or the suffering anymore, but I do. I don’t want the sun to rise either. I just want to lay here until I die, paralyzed by my very own heart. With you. Unable to move or blink or make any sound at all. Just the dark voices, the secret tears. Just the ceiling sinking down over me, reminding me that there is nothing I can do but be this corpse. This corpse that still feels and looks so cold and hides so much and suffers so deeply for I don’t know what. Aching skin and bones, the other bodies I couldn’t quite touch well enough to get inside of. You whose eyes look for what I’m saying and know but cannot find me, this place before the sun rises. These hours of my reality. The room where I lay, in the dark of what’s known is that I can’t get close enough to be satisfied with this place. I can’t extract enough out of ordinary consciousness. The lull of the light we all walk through, the drone of our trying to make it all better, stop the voices, stop reacting to her. Abide by the law, tame the wild child, add it all up and subtract your soul in the process. I lay here counting the years and all the faces flash before me, all the ones I’ve loved who are now gone. The little scared faces of my dogs as they died, my black cat when he gave her the final shot. My father’s sunken eyes on his death day, my mother who mourns the loss of her daughter who is me, all the ones I’ve tried to protect from fear. I never could. I lost everything, every one. I don’t know how to move forward, face the morning sunlight like it matters and I can strive to be someone, be sexier. Be motivated to achieve or at least make a visible difference by pulling weeds or something. But a few years ago something snapped and I lost myself, who I thought was a center and I spread out everywhere. Not in some blissful way either, but strangely, and I have been confused by the influx due to this convergence. I waited to return, I still do. Lying here shuffling through the anxiety of the annihilation that lasts much longer than one would think. I didn’t return. I used to lament and say to BD, “do you think I’ll ever be normal again.” And BD would say, “what’s normal?” And I would say, “where I feel like a person again and I want to do things and have thoughts of my own.” And he would say, “I don’t know honey, just do your mantra.” And I would say, “you don’t understand.” And there would be silence. And it’s true I shouldn’t have said a word but remained in the tremors of silence and kept waiting. All I do is wait, wait to know, wait to care. I care so much I can’t care at all, but I do and I’m
working on it. It’s like I can’t say how this goes, I can’t ask the right question or give the right answer. I can only feel you. I feel alone. You are lonely. And the sun hides for hours, my whole life really. And sometimes dark figures walk into the room and stoop over me, I pretend I don’t see them but I do. “Kill me if you can,” I think because I know they are reading my mind. But they just watch me like they’re interested in something I can’t see in myself. And I can’t find his eyes, I’ve tried. But he is dark, but he is a soul. A dark wandering soul who wants to get inside me to feel something. Something painful. Raw and real the truth about what love means. Love means we are willing ourselves to suffer no matter how you turn it. It’s unbelievably tragic and we have to be together to do this. To torture ourselves into a body that rains tears on the inside and gets everything wet. I am the embodiment of tears. I have nothing but tears and their twilight words. Sometimes masked as sarcasm and anger but the truth is the truth and it’s all about pain and fear and the love that makes all things apparent. The love, whatever love actually is, that makes us acutely aware of our frailty and insignificance. Acutely aware of our godlike power and our childlike clinging. I am always searching for my father. “daddy? daddy don’t go.” I secretly say as I look into your eyes and I feel it sometimes, I won’t lie. Someone much younger behind my eyes still looking for him and I can’t believe it, and I love her and I love you. And my mother, I always avoid her by avoiding you. I know what I’m doing, what we all do to each other. It’s not our fault. It’s our condition and compassion is created not by being pure but by being raw. Peeled open and exposed. Even if the room is dark and nobody is awake but you. I lay here, feeling what life might be and what death is between these sheets. It’s so complicated I don’t know where to begin. I only know where to find you. Where you probably are. And I won’t just say, “you’re in me” because I hate that and it’s really not fair because you’re everywhere and your warm body is special and unique and you’re not just like everyone else. No one is like everyone else. We all suffer the same it’s just that some are more willing to move into the thing we all avoid, it’s the hurt that maybe none of this is real and you’ll leave me, and even if you don’t leave me death will separate us, and even if death couldn’t separate us where will we go, how will we recognize these bodies, how will we love, without being cold and sterile in some out of body realm of who knows what. Thoughts perhaps. Just a thought form of love. Everyone wants a human body because they’re equipped to feel, that’s the experience we seek for our deep soul- is to stir the angst and betrayal. To feel from the depths of our rage and jealousy. To touch and embody the other as yourself. To take the flesh of emotion and evoke the invincible light of soul darkness, soul tar, the artistry of the
gentle, all seeing hand. The hand that grips my heart and squeezes until I can’t breathe. For you, it’s all for you that I rise in this darkness.