Author: Tom (Page 40 of 71)

I dreamed it was all but a dream.

His voice kept whispering to me in my slumber, his mind kept speaking through my thoughts. To sit so still, to be so utterly there, and I could hardly breathe in my temporal excitement. This guru, this unseen voice in the mist, this invisible hand righting me in my insanity, never wavered. He kept calling me even in moments when I choose to ignore him.

Those who would look at me would think me crazy, those who would sit with me would know my sanity. I, a man once constricted by the stories of his life, so completely wounded by the ravages  of childhood despair, now sat so completely at peace that it unnerved almost everyone around him.

Almost. I was numb but felt it all, I was distraught, but had never felt so sure. There were some who knew the path well.

There are many who talk about love, there are quite a few less who actually knows what it means. I had begun this journey with no real cause, no real purpose identified in the slew of complications I heaped upon my exhausted mind. In the end, or at least in this moment, I sat in peace and harmony, staring into the space between my thoughts.

The whisper, it came again. I heard it clearly. A whisper that shouted louder than anything else around me.

Rise, but stay seated. Walk, but do not stand. See, but keep your eyes closed.

More darkness, more stillness, more gentle stabs at my worried mind. Everything shifted, the space between my thoughts narrowing.

You worry too much about the obvious, you think too much about the outward show. Burning torches do not need to dream about lighting the darkness around them. It just happens, as it should be.

Be humbled and know your truth. Be soft, and know your power. Forgive, and know pure joy.

Shaken, I tried to stand, but my legs simply would not respond. Worried, I tried to open my eyes. They remained closed despite my greatest efforts.

Change the way you see the world. Change the way you feel the world. Change the way you are in the world. Or not. The choice is yours.

Deep in my despair, I tried to stop it. One hand held firmly to the darkness around me, the other reached desperately for the light.

The road has been easy, and you’ve always had something to blame. You’ve considered the eyes that are upon you, but not the truth that is inside of you. You’ve always tried to please the voices out there, but ignored the voice within you. Well, I won’t be ignored again. You will listen to me now, or die.

And then I was torn. Open. I was naked and bloody on the dew-laden ground, like a baby just birthed from the womb. I screamed at the Universe that had spanked me, that had left me there to die.

Or to live…

Yes. Or to live. To fucking live.  To spread my wings and fly instead of blaming the wind for my rather hard landings.

Yet, the truth was there. In a loud whisper. In the scars upon my heart. In the wounds that I was still inflicting upon myself.

Responsibility for self, which leads to self-love, which leads to forgiveness, which leads to acceptance, which leads to an eternal sea of kind, humble and remarkable power. I stood on the shoreline for some time until, finally, I decided to jump in.

Yield a kind sword. It’s not your business who cuts themselves with it, it is your business where you swing it. Unsheathe that blade with soft tenacity, and sharpen it with a stone of your own choosing. 

The Sun does not concern itself with those who think it shines too brightly, or to strongly. It just shines, and allows those who worship it to bask in its glory, and those who fear it to hide in the shadows of the night. Be like the Sun, shine to your own happiness without regard for the lover or detractor. They must find themselves, you must know who you are.

Finally, an answer. I needed nothing to be except…me.

No gods, no demons, no books on which to blame. No punishment other than what I had offered upon myself, no glorification outside of my own brightly lit space. No basket you’ve created could dim my light, and if you tried I’d burn right through it.

It’s your dream, your experience. To worry about how you fit into the dream of others is to live their life, not your own. Weed through the voices, silence those you were gifted by others afraid of themselves, and come to that moment when you hear me, the voice unique to you.

I smile. I stand. I see. And I dance. All without ever leaving the space where I can always find myself. This life, this wonderful, glorious life, the wave that has led me to the shore, and the shore that has led me to the wave, is all about the journey. I need not walk to follow my path, or see to know the Sun, or hear your music to dance in the open fields where I roam.

That is love. And it, is everything.

If I haven’t told you that I love you, let me tell you now. Let me whisper the words in your ear, and bury the power of each day in your soul. Let me lift you from the mud, carry you safely up the slope, and gently wash the time we’ve spent apart from your beautiful face.

Let me feel your eyes burrow softly through my own, releasing a lifetime of splintered wood born from the walls we now destroy. Let me bathe in ecstasy as your smiling lips kiss my own, erasing the space between our needy flesh, uniting the time and space we’ve used to meet upon this place.

If I haven’t told you that I love you, let me tell you now. Let me exhale in your presence the breath I’ve held so long in your absence. Let me know you through the dimly lit space we share, a space where fear gives way to ecstasy, where time surrenders to eternity.

If I haven’t told you that I love you, let me tell you now. Let me write it in the clouds and etch it softly on the surface of our moon. Let the stars align to spell our destiny, and the heavens themselves sing out in the sacred praise.

There are no footsteps I have taken nor footprints I have left that haven’t pointed to where you are. I have pulled some mighty carts and carried some hefty stones to prepare my being for that moment when we will sit.  Still. In each other’s arms.

If I haven’t told you that I love you, please hear it now. Hear it in every breath you take, in every song you sing, in every drop of rain that falls upon your flesh. Hear it in the tick of every second, and in the mantra that your heart sings when you are alone.  Hear it, my love, and remember every single word.

There will come a time when you will look into my eyes, and you will know. You will feel it in my hand as it strongly, gently, grasps your own. You will know it in the waves of indescribable energy that pours over you in waves, in the ripples of pure ecstasy as your body trembles in response. You will know it, and  you will answer me without a word.

In that eternity we will find ourselves, drench, parched, and wanting more. Then, there will never be a moment where I haven’t told you that I love you.

She sits there, a chisel in one hand, a hammer in the other, a blank canvas cleverly disguised as stone directly in front of her. “She’s a hard one,” they say. “She’s tough to love,” they try to remind me.

I smile in the description, but I simply cannot see it.

The morning Sun shines nicely on her naked shoulders. She looks up, diverted from her stories and thoughts, if only for a minute. Her smile lights my morning, her glistening eyes betray a truth behind the smile.

The dream again…

She returns to her self, and those stories she likes to cling to. Her shell, hardened by years of tears and moments of bliss destroyed, is what others get to see. For me, I see so much more.

She feels soft like warmed butter when my fingertips draw little lines on her skin. She melts into me as I take her in my arms. I know her there, the two of us like puddles on the floor, making love wherever the moment demands.

She tastes like sweetened cream when my lips meet hers. She takes what she wants and gives even more. No softer heart beats in the throes of her passion, no stronger mind rises to meet me on the fields where we roam.

I hear the steely bits of her shell fall to the floor when I call her name. I can feel her love even when she’s far, as if she has never left my side. She knows me. She loves me. When I am weak she stands tall for me to hold, and when she falters no words need be spoken for her to grab my hand, and rise to her occasion.

The things I see most clearly are the things I see when my eyes are closed. It’s why we close our eyes when we kiss, or when we inhale deeply to catch a fragrance we wish to remember. Sometimes the eyes only get in the way.

I’ve learned to offer thanks for each scar borne upon me as evidence of my falling. In each falling I have risen. Each weakened step has made me stronger if, for no other reason, so that I can pick her up and carry her from the raging fire.

I know that in the moments when I need her, she will carry me as well. I know it in those eyes that betray her hardness with a soft glance. I feel it when her arms embrace me in a subtle mixture of grasping and letting go. I hear it in those whimpers that come as she sleeps, telling a truth that she rarely speaks of.

Yes, I love this woman. She leaves her cape at our door. She drops her cross in the foyer. Then, each layer of her falls to the floor as she makes her way to our room. Naked, unafraid, and wanting…

The dream again.

I once wore a chain.

It was wrapped around me like a vine. It was heavy, and it held me down. When I tried to swim, it kept me in the shallow places. When I tried to fly, it kept me closer to the ground.

I used to blame others for my imprisonment. I had a rough childhood, saw things no child should ever see, and bore the brunt of not being part of a world others wanted me to see. I hid the bruises, I masked the scars, and I pretended to be all they wanted me to be.

In my pain I blamed them. In my sorrow I cursed them. In my suffering I would rage against them.

Now, I thank them.

I once wore a chain.

I wore it, no one else put it on me. Others gave it to me. They showed me where to put it. I, however, made the choice to put it on.

Now, things are different.

If you try to give me a chain, I’ll watch your arms grow tired holding it. Maybe you’ll drop it. Maybe you’ll just walk away to offer it to someone else who likes the way it feels.

If you are wearing one, I may rattle the ends hanging loose. You may realize its weight and the energy you spend keeping it tightly wound about you. You may want to drop it, too or you may just love it too much to bear the lightness that comes in shedding it. Whichever, the choice is always yours, and there is much power there.

I once wore a chain. 

Now, I see the broken links scattered around like the broken promises I made from behind that iron curtain.  I once thought it made me stronger, but I now know the strength was found in discarding it. Once you no longer have something to blame for your stumbles, when you no longer have a chain to rattle to scare the truth away, you realize your true power, and your unbridled strength.

I bear the undeniable marks of a man once so burdened, and the rough calloused form of a man determined to swim, to fly, the scale the highest peaks. I am not the same man I used to be, nor will I be the same man I am. It is the way of a sprouting tree.

Yes, I once wore a chain. 

Here we are. The two of us. Lost yet never more found. Apart yet never more together. Separate yet never more one.

We can’t count the miles between us, or fathom the time that has us staring at each other through empty space. We’ve lost the number of moments we’ve sat next to empty chairs, sang songs to empty air, and grasped at sheets left undisturbed and dark in the moonless night. We are, the two of us, so much a part of each other that the emptiness of our absence only seems darker, emptier, and lonelier. I should be feeling you next to me, and you should be so confident in my presence that there is never an emptiness again.

But alas we are, the two of us, alone.

We stare at the same stars and bask in the same beautiful sunlight. We laugh at the same things, and find pleasure in the same simpleness of life. We’re both brave in our way, and even in our moments of fear there is nothing but the other roar reminding us of just how fucking powerful we are. When you lie in silence you’ll hear my purr, and when you tremble you’ll hear me roar, never doubting that you will not be left alone to fear much in the darkness.

Despite where we go, or what we do, there will always be that memory. There will always be a distant sun that reminds us of this love that never dies, of this moment that never quite lets another come to be. In that way, we never walk alone.

If we are never to be together again , my love, I know that upon my dying breaths I will take note of the gifts this life has given me. I will see the great love that surrounds me and, even in your absence, feel your soft caress upon my arm, and hear your roar that subsides my fear. I will walk softly into the night beyond, hearing forever that soft voice that has so often been the light.

Without one there would have never been the two, and without love there would have never been the two of us.

She wears her fear like a dress, allowing it to gently flow through the twirls she makes to life’s subtle sounds. It hugs her nicely, exposing a form she tries to hide yet one that can’t be shrouded, raising interest in even the most casual observer to what is underneath, what is beyond, that layer.

I want her to peel that dress off, and I want to see her naked form. I want to lightly touch her hidden places, raising bumps of pleasure along the way. I want to kiss her in spots she tries to cover, taste the drink she tries to bottle, and feel the certain joy she tries to mask in the doubts her mind shouts with reckless abandon.

The world may see her dressed, but I will see her naked. The world may see her cloaked in fabric stylish to the day, but I will see her clothing strewn about the floor of our sultry church. The world will marvel in the way she looks in that dress, but I will know her beauty without it, and I will have quite a secret to tell her in moments when she forgets just how beautiful she is.

I will touch her. We will meet in space otherworldly, and we will make love with a passion rarely known to man. She will then sink into me, knowing that I do not own her, and I will then hand her that dress to do with as she pleases.

Sit. Still. Now inhale. A laugh comes through this happy smile.

Sometimes, I think I am just fucking crazy.

I love a woman I can’t touch, touch a woman I can’t love, and basically fret about in tawdry places just to get along. I hear stories of woe and cringe at the memory.

This was once me…

I hear their worry, and see it in myself. I see their melancholy and feel it in me. I hear their angry, vengeful words and in no time they’re spilling from my mouth. I am the blackness I see all around me.

I am also the light within the blackness. I see someone in need, and my hand automatically shoots out to help them. I read a cardboard sign made hastily by the bearded man sitting on a bucket by the corner and I know that could be me. Despite a fear of heights, I’ve climbed ladders and rappelled from tall buildings just to save another from harm. I’ve driven deep into the fires of hell just because a voice within me told me to, and could easily have died following a silent command that wanted to experience it all.

I’m a snarky bastard who loves you tremendously. I’m a fucking asshole who wants nothing but the best for us all. I’m a strong character who creaks with the onset of time. I have an impatient wit married to a settled mind. I always believe I’m right because, frankly, if I didn’t I’d change my mind. I’m stubborn, as well as stubbornly devoted to continued change.

I am a product of childhood abuse who could never harm his own, a man once so riddled with rage that grew into great love. I’ve lost so much in my life but find my cup full. I’m usually broke but am the wealthiest man I know, and enjoy living so much that I even smile through the sadness.

So, in essence I am an oxymoron, a spirit made into flesh who is the epitome of the contrasts essential to having a wonder full experience.

In a very non-New Age way I love myself. I love my assholishness as well as the compassionate me. I don’t need to smile all the time just because some guru somewhere told me to. Sometimes I can scream and rant and rave and curse everything around me. Then, I embrace it all, love the nuances of the challenges life has for me, and move on. There is always a present moment to attend to, even if that present moment is decades old.

I embrace my humanity because it is a gift. I see that wonderfully fucked-up man in the mirror as a complete and utter saint, a being so blessed with who he is that he could not imagine changing. Of course I could always be healthier, eat better, more fit and better looking, but I am perfect in what I see despite my own judgments. I sleep alone most nights, and only feel lonely in my thoughts of a great love that is too distant to embrace at the moment. I can sit still for hours and enjoy great moments of unease in the same wonderful breath.

To some, I’m just fucking crazy. To others I may just be completely sane. To me, I am perfectly normal. Insanely normal. Wonderfully normal. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Rejoice, and embrace that spec of difference that you are, that spec of white on a darkened canvas. You give everywhere you visit the shape it so richly deserves!

I no longer fear the darkness because I know that at any time I can simply choose to see the stars that live within it. I no longer fear falling because even thought I’m going to hit the ground, I realize I was always meant to, so I might as well enjoy the ride. I no longer fear change because, frankly, change has been good for me, even when that change brought me to places where survival was far from a certainty.

I no longer fear death because I’ve died a million times already, and in doing so realized I had feared living much more. I no longer fear love because it is all that I am. No, I haven’t rejected fear to find love, rather I’ve discovered love within the fear. I’ve found that to be a wonderful awakening, one where I can love myself despite what I’ve been told are my misgivings, one where I can let myself be without much need of reform.

Does all of this make me fucking crazy? Yes, I’ll admit it does. Mostly because I like the idea that I can live so radically different from what I once saw as “sane”, exist so differently from the way I was raised, and feel so opposite of the way I once felt that I realize it takes a bit of crazy to just jump from those places. Yes, I not only hear voices in my head, but I talk to them. Often.

I hope to write even more about my insanity. I hope to fulfill my destiny, and get so muddy along the way that all you can see is my smile through the drying muck on my face. I feel a definite era of change settling in around me, of even more dedication to the path I’m clearing, of even more conversation with the voices in my head. I feel a definite release of the distractions that have kept me confined, and a change in the mindset that created those distractions to begin with.

It feels so right. So perfect. I’m still smiling. Now, I can exhale.