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| This is Jack's broken heart, v2. |
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| theOriginal |
| 02/24/04 at 11:07:41 |
| [slm] Okay this is SUPPOSED to be creative writing (the blogger in me): I am suffering from a broken heart. I don't know what caused it, or even who caused it, but so it stands. And at the end, if I am in doubt, I best blame me. Return me to the company of Whom I am in peace. If only I had but remembered as I awoke from my dreams. If only I could smell the scent of a fruitful breeze. If only I could close my eyes to see. To see where this life is taking me. Taking me to a blessed end. Taking me to a blessed end, my friend, if only. Carrying me aloft in the shady streets. Picking me off the ground as I'm falling. Generally feeling, I'm feeling at ease, but if only I had remembered as I awoke from my dreams. The very dreams that broke my heart. The aims unaccomplished in descriptive art. In descriptive artforms in my dreams. A descendent sadness in these dreams. A realization of my defeat. Success, instead, is in this defeat. If the defeat is so powerful, it comforts me. It kills me with its comfort, does it not? If only I had remembered as I awoke from my dreams. The wounded, the bleeding, the bruised is this heart. Protected only by a defensive mind. The mind, I find, it lies and cheats. It misleads me into torrents of rain. Of rain or wind or unrealistic devoted pain. The mind's mistakes humble me. But briefly, only briefly, my friend. Then it ends, and it starts again. Why I cannot fly, I do not know. Something good, it holds me back. This good makes me cry, I know, I know. But this good is good, you know? [i]Eik chhoti si dibya tip tip karray. Eik chalta musaafir girr girr parray. [/i] The tears they fall like those torrential rains. The ones my mind misled me to. Which is rain, and which is the stumbling traveller, I will not know. If it is fake, I pray it isn't so. Rejected, dejected, scared and deceived, I lie alone in these lonely streets. The streets so shady, so shady they be. Nothing to carry me. Carry me aloft these shady streets. And pick me off the ground as I'm falling. As I'm falling into my dreams. Into my dreams, it seems. If only I will but remember as I wake from my dreams... |
| 03/31/04 at 14:06:52 |
| theOriginal |
| Re: This Jack's broken heart, v2. |
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| paula |
| 03/02/04 at 22:27:55 |
| [slm] ~ enjoyable sister ... awaiting more if you should be inspired~ Those unable to grieve, or to speak of their love, or to be grateful, those who can’t remember God as the source of everything, might be described as a vacant wind, or a cold anvil, or a group of frightened old people. Say the Name. Moisten your tongue with praise, and be the spring ground, waking. Let your mouth be given it’s gold-yellow stamen like the wild rose’s. As you fill with wisdom, and your heart with love, there’s no more thirst. There’s only unselfed patience waiting on the doorsill, a silence which doesn’t listen to advice from people passing in the street ‘Persian Poems’ ~ Coleman Barks [wlm] |
| Re: This Jack's broken heart, v2. |
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| paula |
| 03/02/04 at 22:31:05 |
| [slm] ‘Pursuit of the Friend’ the Heart left, & the Friend is (also) gone. I don’t know whether I should go after the Friend or after the Heart! A voice spoke to me: “Go in pursuit of the Friend, because the lover needs a heart in order to find union with the Friend. If there was no Friend, what would (the lover) do with (his) heart?” ‘Sayings & Advice’ ~ A.G. Farhadi [wlm] |
| Re: This Jack's broken heart, v2. |
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| theOriginal |
| 03/31/04 at 14:06:19 |
| [slm] "I just want to go home." That's it. That's all I want to do. I can't stand another day, I now need another chance, I have nothing more to say. To say what I think gets me in trouble, to say what I feel is never right. It's not right, it's wrong, like a nightmare prolonged. Like a distant song, in the wailing wind. The wailing wind, the sailing song, all gone. My defeat just won. It killed the struggle in me to fly sky-high. Now I'll fly, but only away. Fly away in the wailing wind with the sailing song. Fly away so they can say, she smiled but only briefly, she cried but without purpose. She cried, she tried, she might have died, if it wasn't for that only promise. Only promises weigh us down. In the ground. Down in the ground, I feel like I'm falling. Then I hear the calling, and I awake to remember all things I seem to forget. I bet I forget every second of the day. Of today, for example. Not tomorrow, per se. Tomorrow, if I die, then I can't forget. I'll remember, I bet. "Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; thus let me unlamented die;...and not a stone tell where I lie." The numbers ring in my head like bells. Like bells, not of a church, but alarm bells. Alarming bells; they tell the story of those numbers, two, three, and 3 fours. I'm out the door. The storm is calling, and I'm forsaking the peace. Two, three, and 3 fours. Please close that door, the numbers are calling, and I'm struggling for peace. Two and Three and Four, I had forgotten before. I see the problem, I see it, my dear. So clear. So clearly I see what the problem is. Two and Three and Four are always there for me, but I forget so easily. I forget so easily, my mind goes hazy, my dreams get blurry, my eyes get weepy, and my heart screams. Sreaming soundlessly over and over and over. Like in this poem. I said I just want to go home. |
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