The Happy Ending Pretending To Continue

How it was meant to be,
in my web of mind,
I've traveled searching
for the way to make it,
into something of value,
the fourth place being,
the fifteen selves really
there, standing side by side,
living lies holiness-wide.

Not all temples have doors.
Not all people rest on ships
and not all saviors dream
about their sentences.

People kill, people die.
Worship ends,
mornings lie,
mornings cry,
spirits bounce
and elves pronounce
incorrectly
the beginning of winter.

My name is
unimportant
because in your ear,
you cannot hear
but what you're
saying,
and you aren't reciting
the truth.

There's no reason for this,
but everyman's punishable
for the hell he opened
when he stopped talking
to himself, turned away
towards the bars of other prisons,
self-made men, self-saved men,
bitten man, hidden man.
Woe, man, woah.

I wanted to know if you were going to look for me
if I'd asked, I kept wondering.
And amidst this wondering, the light suddenly turned inwards.
I wondered whether I'd really wanted you to care.
Because I couldn't see whether you did, so
it left me but with wanting
and with questioning what I'd asked for.
And with enough wanting, I chose the other door.
Why do I want you to care? What would it add to my life?
Everyman wonders and wants to be taken care of, nurtured, paid attention to.
I grant you this, but why does it matter to me? I am either everyman or one.
Who cares? I'd wanted you to.
But what will it mean ultimately, because my wanting is what would've called it firstly,
so it'd be me that cares, through you, about me.

It just feels strange. Dependency calls for reassurance. It is futile, I realise now, to depend on you for the satisfaction and fulfillment of love. Grave expectation. Yet, unreceiving of this, I feel the capacity to move on, to not depend, to be joyful with what I receive from whomsoever but to continue to grow spiritually without clinging to another. You. I still want you in my life, but only because you want to be in it. Only because your spiritual growth matters to me and if I can help with your evolution as an individual then I am willing to be there for you, to love you. If you don't, then, I will not hold on. So I don't hold on to something I made up. So the puzzle pieces can fit together without being forced together.

Release.

Going Where I Don't Know

My feelings aren't hurt,
no, they aren't even alive
to feel what I think they weigh
be dispensed on the sidewalk,
like something worthless,
not worth a second glance,
heck, just a nothing, made up
to excuse my thought-like trance.

Honestly, these expectations
are just too much noise;
I think I'm more, I'm not,
and then the echo deploys.
The world's caught up in it
and my friends all sign up
to what I don't understand,
and I feel it within me erupt.

There isn't much left for words,
forgiveness has already come,
and yet for it to stay with me,
control has to be left alone
so here I go, walking towards
what I don't know, unplanned
and a world's path dodged to find
the one that by it isn't manned.

Thoughts, Trust, Translation

I have this feeling right now, as I'm talking to my friend who is suffering and away in another city, of being distant and alien. I'm trying to tell her not to worry about her exam, and trying to make her aware of the psychology of what she's doing, as I see it. Basically, trying to make her more conscious of her actions and what consequences they are having on her mentality as she's relaying to me and I'm interpreting. I've done this many times before, with her, with others, so much so that perhaps it's become my schtick, part of my identity. Yet, having done it up until now, I'd felt like I'd had something to give, like I could help. And now, in doubting myself, I also doubt what I can say to her, since it's the same problem that's cropped up just in a different format each time. I suddenly feel distant, like the language I'm using to speak to her is different to hers. And a different dialect means communication is broken, at least on the surface. At least to me. She replies laconically with a 'LOL' and a 'k'. I don't know how to interpret that. She says she knows what I mean and that she'll try take my advice. I say 'good'. This is where I leave it to faith.

Maybe it's my own insecurity that I'm projecting onto her own mental imbalance that is making me feel that I've lost my 'touch'. I'm not as much in contact with who I thought I was, and so, confidence aside, I don't really believe in what I'm saying as much anymore. I talk about love as if I know what it means. I talk about fears and their non-existence but as illusions in our minds as if I abide by those rules, yet I don't. I haven't yet learned enough of these lessons that I try teach others. And it's making me feel inadequate, like I ought not to talk to them lest I teach them something 'wrong', even though I don't believe I can do that.

I just feel confused really. Uncertain about who I am, at the core of it all - and so, everything, everything that rests upon this foundation, now is blurred. "A Course In Miracles" did say that in order to follow it, I would eventually end up questioning everything I believed in. And I accepted that, perhaps not wholeheartedly. But now it seems real. Doubt has entered. Ok, I understand most things are not as I thought they are. And yet, it has to go deeper than that. And I feel that the deeper I go, the more distant I become from the world, from the people in it, from what they do and what they think about. That's... unsettling. But perhaps it's only unsettling because I am still trying to think my way through it all. Thinking's a defense mechanism for me. It reduces all change down to an interpretation that maintains my mental schematics and plans as intact as it can. But now, everything I'd been working for, built in that schema, is under doubt. Does it really matter? Well... if I think about it, I try answer yes and say why and postpone and delay. And if I just leave it? I come to an uncomfortable feeling of... 'no, it doesn't matter.'

So it doesn't matter that I don't know what my life is about. It doesn't matter that I have tried to build an image of myself as always being there for other people, sacrificing myself along the way. It doesn't matter, because it's not true, and it's too hard to maintain anyway. It doesn't matter who I've tried to impersonate. It doesn't matter that I've questioned my sexuality and haven't concluded anything concrete. It doesn't matter that I tried to attract the attention of some of my friends over and over and over again, seeking validation for what I was doing and thinking. It doesn't matter that I was trying to make things that didn't matter, matter. It still doesn't matter. Because at the end of the day, I'm not the one that decides what matters and what does not. I am not God. And so, all that I've 'striven' to maintain, a "Cris" that is nice as can be, intelligent, altruistic, caring, loving, emotional, determined, proactive, sociable, approachable, going-that-extra-mile-for-someone, not asking for much in return, all that, doesn't matter. It doesn't.

I'm not saying I am a waste of space because I'm not. I'm not a victim here, despite what my ego would like me to believe. But it doesn't matter that I tried to be this way, and not, say, a bully, or a heartless asshole, whatever that means. Because, I feel I've cheated myself in trying to use this 'good' image as a ladder to get love from people, attention and validation particularly. I think part of my image used to be that I didn't require these, and when I was given them perhaps I took them for granted. And now, now that I've gone into my thought patterns, I've unmasked that there is a desire, suppressed, for attention and validation. I thought I was above those, but apparently wanting them just makes me human. And I ought not to be ashamed to ask for them. The 'how to ask' part I'm a bit hazy on, however. Maybe I thought I wasn't human, I was better than human. Imagine that; a human thinking he is better than a human. False superiority complex. Yeah. This isn't unconditional love at all. Yet, maybe the attention and validation that I'd gotten is the closest thing I've come to, so far, from what I can remember. Yet the past is gone so what am I left with if I'm not to dig up memories. How can I even tell if something is unconditional if I don't trust it, anyway?

The love I get, I have to trust. I think that's the lesson. Trust that it won't go away, the truth in it is ever unconditional and will remain that way. The question my mind comes up with then is how can I tell when someone gives me love? And that requires trust, too. The desire to see it, too. I remember something: If I believe someone is hurting me, then I will believe I am hurt. And if I believe someone loves me, then I will believe I am loved. I prefer the latter. I would prefer it be the truth. I can't translate from anything to truth though. That's where You come in then. Be my translator, please.

Closure

Even though there's less than a lip in between,
I can clearly see where you end, I begin
to wait for symbols but the fibres are thin,
and I measure more than I'd like to have seen
in the distance in between

your words, laundry-pinned to dry in my sun,
hanging from the moment ago they were spun
in drenching new-birth, concatenating with mine
to form the meaning I'd been meaning to sign
in the distance in between

us, and what has happened, what could never be,
there was nothing woven where nothing's to see
and I crane my neck, reading in front of me
the results of what I asked for, honesty
in the distance in between

the self that I aligned myself with, and you
expelling the code that puzzles me through
the silences when we meet, our rendez-vous
from a language I speak to get to what's true
in the distance in between

the vocal chambers that reside in bodies
picking up signals from closer melodies
that sound out help from minds not at ease
like mine, a poet ambling in memories
in the distance in between

where I've done too much searching for your smile,
ghosts have passed a lonelier road in denial
of their release, who I'd joined up with, all the while
talking, yelling, mouthing verbs and nouns, guile
in the distance in between

that I'm trying to overlook even here,
sounding out various prayers to an ear
I imagine is yours, wherever you hear
the fibres telling you that I am near
in the distance in between

where really there's a bridge you laid the instant
when the strings I tugged began their descent
into my sun-deprived consciousness, sent
from the warmth I recalled as an infant
in the distance in between.

Understanding

In your greenroom of emotions,
headphones on, I am listening
to the white noise that your lips make
when they dab upon each other.

Blind to the spectacle behind
I am stuck waiting to the side.

Your story, what is now spoken
is to me like ice, thawing out
those feelings that have been melting
in your eyes. I can't see the doubt

on the screen, growing yet thicker,
causing my lost mind to flicker.

Pensées

Parmi les pensées,
les pensées,
fleurs belles -
rien ne s'oppose;
Parmi elles,
la vie morose,
la vie extraite
dingue, sourire
dingue, sentiment
étrange.

J'ai peur que tu
me trouveras
parmi mes pensées,
dupe, décédé,
Une peinture inachevé
manquant des touches
finales;
sans pensées,
sans pensées.

Trop de temps;
je jure que notre rêve
je revais seul.
A notre foi,
je croyais, sûr -
folle erreure,
folle chanson,
fausse beauté
encombrée de fleurs.

Celles du Mal,
pas fleuries;
sauf les pensées
qui me reprochent,
qui me chantent
leur refrain-conseil:
Renonce-y.

Une perte, d'une partie
dont j'étais, perdu
arrêté avant d'être resolu,
trop d'espoirs flous,
l'orage après nous -
Du trou
à l'intérieur,
où sont plantées
les pensées,
les pensées.

Faith To Let Be, To See, Really

Can you imagine, how it feels, the day you decide to walk on by, past excuses, past the little cowards of encouragement, through the wispy veil of fear, and out into the light? There, where the rain reminds you of rebirth and not the gloom of past days kept sickeningly frozen, you'd finally see me. Not with your eyes, but with your breath. Not with your ears, but with the thousandths of inches of spaces in between your freckles. You'll realise that death parted us not, but that we forgot to laugh our puerile confusion away. I'm smiling as I write this. I remember what it was like, before we lost ourselves to who we weren't. Funny moment. Funny timelessness. Inoubliable, yet it passed and the skies felt grey when drops dropped from it. What happened?
What happened to us?

I am here, in the sentiment of the day, experiencing fullness to the rim yet patiently waiting to overflow; for you, to come beyond the doors. To smile. A genuine regard never looks at something, but beyond it. When you look him in the eyes, you but gaze into me. You hate him. And you fight for him because you want him close to you, you want to prolong the pain. Just days ago, you willed peace, and it was given you, the feeling that you are. And you still are. What happened that made you look away from the mirror? Did you see a glint in his eyes, a fabled attraction, the hallucinatory guise of attack, about to pounce? Were you scared? Were you doubtful of his trust in you, or yours in him?

This is a crisis of faith. You and the magical window. I talk about reflections, them being everywhere. Sometimes you look and see them, then a shiny surface again scares you. Because you don't see yourself in it.

But you're in them, I know this, yet it makes you want to run aground, push back the ocean so you can hide away from it. Fear isn't real. What you are afraid of, this enemy that you perceive you are, is not there. But you hate him. That's what it sounds like. But if you looked not into his eyes but beyond them, you'd find yourself there, but without the timorous visage.

You don't trust him because you don't see you're him. You lose faith in God because you forget He's there. You choose not to listen. You choose not to see. You choose not to be who you are, because, love scares you. You are so petrified of being hurt by what cannot hurt. You stone man, you can walk because your feet are not frozen. You can sing because your tongue is not still. You can speak because your breath has motion.

It's not any of these things that makes you alive, though. You know.

Faith. And Love. And Joy. And Harmony. And Peace. Sweet Peace. It is all here, where we are.
Let me show you.

En Arrière

Chaque partie de moi, chacun on voit,
Chacun on trouve dans mes éspoirs,
Chacun on cherche dedans ma paume,
Dessous de la peau que je ne peux pas appeler
la mienne.

Mais voilà, on cherche sans entraves
Jusqu'au jour qu'on peut découvrir
Le sourire de mes bras, et leur verité,
Leur appel à l'âme, à la vie étrange,
oubliée.

Ça sent comme l'herb divin, le déjà trouvé.
Et puis, gardant l'histoire de mes échanges,
Je choisis l'autre option, la seule
Lorsqu'on se regarde en face, grâce à ce qu'on
ne peut pas voir.

J'ai photocopié mes émotions sur ma paume
Afin d'être capable de lire ce que je sens
quand je me cherche pour l'avenir.

C'est ma main, que je laisse
Me faire entendre, tandis que
Mes yeux s'occupent du reste, sauf,
Bien sûr, le bien-être de mon oeil
dedans.

Still Life

Today, time just waits while people pause
and find a feeling.
The quake broke the clock,
timed all that was meant to be
and stopped intentions from fulfilling.

I speak without a voice;
despair: my vocal chords,
with no verbs, just sheer implosive emotion
eager to shout and save
in its scything silence,
echoing the sound of bone.

Downtrodden, Christchurch ushers in a new day
this 22nd afternoon,
dismantling the old one
brick by brick, life by life.

Now, I wait for confirmation
that my child is alive and well
and my mother's still out there breathing
and my friends and aunty and
the elderly man three doors down, are all okay.

Life is still.
All of the lights strobe red in sawdust fog,
cars rake along the city streets,
away from the concrete caveats.
The buildings creak to stay statued
before the worms start feeding under them.

Faces hurt,
ache to react and contain and release
but freeze, uncharacteristic, undecided, disabled.
These dust-covered ashen molds
from which I hope life may still emerge,
I cannot even touch,
though they have touched me.

La Peur d'Être Faux

Je me trouve souvent entre plusieurs mondes,
assis, quelquefois accroupi tenant fermement
les genoux à ma poitrine, regardant entre eux
comme s'ils étaient des grilles d'une balustrade
sur laquelle je pourrais m'appuyer; et entre eux,
je verrais en bas, ce qui se trouve en face à moi,
ma peur, amplifiée et avec sa force renouvelée,
un sourire mécanique qui rappelle la folie
sur un visage des visages, renvoyant
un fac-similé.

Stint

Nobody's rain drips from nobody's window,
Nobody's touch touches the ground.

Here, nobody settles down,
For a while somebody feels.

Nobody's leaves fall in nobody's garden,
Nobody remembers a thing.

Your Beautiful

The fragrance of your smile
The womb of your indifference
The flight of stairs for a mile
The whole lack of penitence.

The peace in your heart
The marshmallow gaze
The presence from the start
The most familiar haze.

The riddling laughter
The broken lies
The prose right after
The sudden ties.

The four lines
The feather
The two signs
Together.

The she
The you
The me
The true.

Your face
Your pupil
Your space
Your beautiful.

Inbetween No Man's Land

Un enfant tient au gaz d'échappement. Il le respire et le gaz voyage à travers son cerveau aux fins minuscules de rue, de monde, d'endroit connu et de lieu imaginaire. C'est le chocolat chaud qui frappe les nuages, et la pensule avec laquelle on mange la soupe.

And if by any chance one would listen to words as if they were drenched and leaked off the page into the estuary of someone's palm, maybe that someone close by who had auditory nerves enfleshed into their fingertips, one would realise that sense is not made by the chorus of the crowd but by the imagery of the spark that desires to make. But it can't make what it wants, only what it must. However, it can only make what it must when it is what it wants. The first part of the first statement is then not true, and we have an argument where logic takes a seat and watches bored in a corner on a fold-out chair. Shenanigans. So far, the lines have been blurred little, but the sense has not been made. Or has it? Do you get it yet? As you sit in your chair, are you comprehending that what I am writing here is not what I am writing here? And can you also see that no one is writing, that it's all been done, thought, processed, dried, revered, clasped, probed and pieced before you even sat down? Can you see I am being self-conscious? Can you really see anything?

Et nous arrivons ici avec beaucoup de temps pour réflechir et penser à tout ce que ne fait rien. Désolé si je semble existentialiste. Je viens d'être étonné par la guerre entre moi et moi-même, encore. Encore, ça survit. Mais aujourd'hui je me rends compte que c'est bizarre. Ce n'est pas naturel. Ce conflit... c'est tout dans mon esprit, avec des aspects mis en lumière de temps en temps dans mon monde.

This place is dark. It sucks. The corner shadows of the mind in which fear rests restless seem to be static to the ephemeral attempts to think them out. Glorious syntax, will you please unfurl? I don't like praying to doorways. So can there not be so much inbetween? Because it's just so darn confusing. Clarity, please turn on the light. I know you're in the room somewhere and just too obvious to see. I want to see you now, c'est-à-dire, I want to see. Properly. Truly.

In light.
En lumière.

It all comes back to the man in the mirror. I fight and blame someone else and then learn to forgive them and myself. And it all circles back to me. Ultimately though, the biggest fight I can have is with myself, my ego. Against nothing.

And because this doesn't make sense, I am watching it dissolve into the light.

The Way Beyond The Walk

I hear the rain pulling out the rift of space
between my facial features and my feeling
of abandonment. It dries up the pale light
of peace. Some corpse lies on a table alone,
undergoing instructions to shrivel. Sand
remains remain to remind one is yet free.

Remember the voice of silence, yelling "Free
yourself!" Now I have given it more thought space;
see I have drawn with a mental stick in the sand
my aspirations. These schematics, feeling
has kept firm and unbent. Now that I am alone,
I can exhume them to be burned by the light.

Friendships, relationships, secrets in the light
of truth, their funeral is nigh. Let me free
also my buried heart, a symbol left alone
far longer than desired. Amidst found space,
I gather from below the surface of feeling
like I understand, a feather kept by sand.

I used it to write down names, scribblings in sand,
of those who I held dear. Carved, when met by light,
they still shine, resplendently touching, feeling,
setting their etched presence and nuances free.
Perhaps in my voyage, I may roam in space
for them. Maybe not. Maybe I journey alone.

Yet this path is too well-traveled - the alone
eventually find it, don't they? Breathe. Sand
parts and the windswept realms greet me with the space
to find my way. My luggage gone, I trip light.
I am not even burdened by want to be free
and so, I rest in an embrace of feeling.

Ever, I could not encapsulate my feeling
into expressions where I was left alone.
Now, I reach beyond them to where being free
is but the way beyond the walk in the sand
of mind. Joined are the granules, in purest light,
permeating the dunes on the shores of space.

I am free of any bounding feeling
That in space, in rain, I am held alone.
In the wet sand, I but follow the light.

Broken Mirrors

There are pieces lying broken
Of the glass I smashed today.
There are keepers of a secret
Turning their hurt heads away
Because it's painful,
Because it's hate.
Because there's pieces lying broken
And there's wounds we've yet to mend.

There are voices on the streets
That scream something rather sad
At the people walking, walking by
Like zombies in a silent lullaby.
Heads down, they weep
For a moment of bliss
They seek. They aren't given a chance
So they won't give one to you.

Children, broken mirrors,
They'll be shattered to the end
Hoping setting the world on fire
Will somehow bring forgiveness.
Teach them how to fail
At expressing how they feel.
Teach them hate is love
And lies you still struggle to believe.

Together alone, we continue to fear
That the pain of sacrifice will e'er be here,
Seen in the cross, in compromise, in war,
Children wonder if it's worth fighting for.
Are they wrong to question it?
Is there love to ease their hurt
Or are they shattered syllables
Of words we bend, strangle and twist
To fashion the false into existence?
Well we might be artists,
But lies reign in an abyss.

Broken mirrors, violins sound,
Death inside a precarious mound
Shapes their will, so precious and raw
Among the children they hold a flaw.
Against themselves and their others
Against their parents and brothers,
They strike a shard, to ease the pains
That leaks out of their veins
And into city alleyways and streets
They bleed to hear their own heartbeats.

Someone

He had tangled himself up in reasons he did not know.
For the things he had done hath marred the flow
Of life and love and everything that used to be so sweet
To him, to all living things around him.
He let his beauty be blocked by hurt
A costly price to pay for nothing in return
But suffering, a wound that shatters faith
To the end of his occluded divine breath.

How does one begin to describe when his love is lost. When it all starts at the beginning, he never expects it to end, but it all must according to the law of the universe. What goes up, must come down. But he never wanted to crash, to crater the earth and send shockwaves that would sine and cosine those he held near him, and as a result they would flee to safer ground. This is a set of circumstances. They make up the situation.

At thirteen or fourteen, he meets her, she meets him. They date. He dreams, he invests in romance and begins his wooing as exemplified by his brothers. He falls for her, and so begins the descent into the realm of love. Except that it blinds and misleads and suddenly there is a point where emotions become unequal and this imbalance between him and her and her and him disintegrates into an example of failure. He says she said his love was too strong, his emotions too much. The investment, that so looked to have paid off, shatters the piggy-bank and coins are fanned in every direction. Such is how the flood starts, and blood spills. And the rollercoaster of puberty sentences the next years to thoughts of suicide and being upset. A dastardly plan is hatched and is foiled by contact with truth. This paragraph is expressively vague.

Later, they reconcile their emotions and join again in union, to end again for another reason. Drama occurs. Up and down again. Then a separation that lasts 'til today. Strange, is this a story about love? They are no longer together. Yet they are always together, linked in some ways by sentiments that words cannot carry but merely point to in an attempt at understanding. Are these these words? No. The words in question are not written by me, whose heart is not amidst the conflict, but still within the perimeter. I know him. He doesn't know himself. Yet.

Inemotion

Napalm is irrelevant, but inspirational.
Seventeen things that could make the day better are really just one.
Nobody claims to know what they are talking about.
Shadows do not dance on the wall.
I don't know what love songs are about, but they make me wonder.
Diamonds aren't forever, neither is marriage.

Solo, in silence, amidst the crowd of a thousand and four spies with no eyes, who I am is. This sounds less impressive, yet more degenerate and puzzling because it is not saturated with meaning as something else might be. The blurriness dispels your ability to judge. Yet you cannot see the truth when it is blurred, so you must come to know it for what it is, without any edge.

All good things come to an end. All sad things come to an end as well. The same end. Perforated by an emotion, dulling can set in. You might feel numb. Unwilling to respond, and confused because you drift. Floating, this is inemotion, a sentiment where you feel you are falling and also know you are not, that you are safe. You wander and wonder about everything. Questioning nothing, leaving everything in its place, you begin to see a distraction in all there isn't, and life in all there is. But the imbalance remains acute and persistent. You know you are love. You know it. Yet your beliefs are torn apart by truth, and you feel you are adrift in a land of unknowns. In reality, you are safely grounded. But you don't always feel that way, and it becomes a process of going back and forth between what is and what isn't to realise what is is and what isn't isn't.

Love is here, it is about opening the eyes and heart so that it can be seen and felt. This means crossing an inexistent gap, making a leap over no distance. Jump with me.

We Really Are Each Other

Reasons, for changing the point of view may come, to change your image from 2D to 3D. To those who would rather see it as they would a television show, I have nothing to say but to make you aware that I have stirred you from your slumber. To others, know that there isn't always a worded reason that coils itself around the lies we tell about ourselves or others in an attempt to fashion a beneficial reality. Lying fails. The truth doesn't, that's why it's the best option. But we may try to find reasons, a certain intelligence that answers a 'why' behind what happens in our lives, as random and uncalled for as it may seem. I have been trying to find that, the causes all being in my past of course but digging that up and trying to reinterpret it has opened old wounds and brought to my attention my deeper, previously hidden vulnerability. And so it is, that I've had to surrender some of these feelings. Insecurities about many aspects of life knocked on my door and I answered thinking they needed my attention more than the present did. That was a mistake, because all they did was drag me outside and give me a beating. And then I went into cyclical overdrive, trying to find out the purpose of this, and the meaning and all that has gotten me nowhere but in a rut. Overthinking. I've been there, done that, it got nowhere.

So Life said to give in, to stop, to breathe. I did not listen, so the pain of perceived lack got worse. Finally, when I couldn't take it any longer, I let the moment be. And it is.

Everything happens for a reason, for there is a cause to everything. I will know them when I need to, and I will know what to do when I need to do it. There is nothing but illusion, speculation, avoidance, fear and whatevers outside of that. Rather, there is nothing outside of that! And this is peaceful, because we are always in the place of truth, as we are truth. It is a conscious choice that we must make to awaken and to live as true people, regardless of gender, sexual orientation, hair colour, nationality, miscellaneous differences. Everyone's form is different. Life breathed it that way. Life breathes through us. The lungs, that is to say the Source, is the same.

That is joy. To know that everyone is the same, and that we are here to really discover and aid each other in discovering that we are one. As Kim Eng put it, "We really are each other."

A Simple Request

And it all comes down to leaving it all behind, moving on to the rivers of love, and never be lonely again. How long have you waited? How long 'til you drown?

This gives me hope. The piano is tuned to play on my emotions, the strings that tug at my heart in vulnerability. It soothes my silent despair, my loss, my drama-addicted fuse. It tells me that they are not needed, that I can let go of them and really live. The music moves me because it sings to me what I feel, what I hope to be true.

How many times have I questioned my worth?
How many times have I lost myself in my mind?
How many times have I forgotten peace?
How many times have I not been able to answer my own questions?
How many times have I spoken to anyone truly?
How many times have I spoken to myself truly?
How many times have I taken a leap of faith?
How many times have I felt guilty for what I have done?
How many times have I been confused by my fears?
How many times have I really said something that I meant?
How many times have I gone around in circles?
How many times have I felt something to be true?

It doesn't matter. Quantity is a number and it doesn't matter. Numbers can repeat themselves over and over and not matter at all. Stock markets, Lotto tickets, binary. Rien.

Yet my focus has been programmed to concentrate on quantity. How much, how many. But the wonder of life comes from quality, the truth resonates qualitatively. It is from within me, from within depths and limitless yonders and beyond horizons and sunrises and sunsets, that life really lives. It's not magic. It's not magic. It's real, and I love to know it. To witness it. To feel it.

If you lift me up, just get me through this night, I know I'll rise tomorrow and I'll be strong enough to try.

A simple request. It is done.

Viens

This lack, this lack I feel is like nothing that is real. It wants me to be free to be enslaved. It wants something? How does it want something when it isn't something real? Twist not, knots. Preen some feathers further away from distraction, into solitude. Crayons, landslide, epitome, sustenance, spelling mistakes with the arrows of ink. Emotion.

Compris? Moi, non plus. Le point? Aucun. Surprise!

I have said before, there is no gap here. I have continued to perceive one, for I have thought it served me, but it is increasingly dawning on me that there is no gap and there is no need for a gap. A gap is a void, and a void is empty. Why would we need such an illusion when what we would have it filled with is here all along, untouched? I don't have an answer because there is none, as there isn't supposed to be - remember, it is a void. Voids are empty, therefore as unwelcome as they might be, they are still barren and desolate. And I am not. So I do not belong there, but where love is.

So love, I invite you. You are shining your light and I am beginning more and more to see it. I want this miracle, and I have it. Love, come.

Viens. Mes bras sont ouverts, et mon coeur est le tien.