I left my words in the mountains, and so my thoughts follow me like the remains of a shadow. Door to door, peering through cracked, dusty windows, hoping for light so that it can disappear all together. Or perhaps so it can stand out darker against earth’s soil that no longer reaps.
I left my wisdom, my ability to think, my morality and with that the clarity that came from knowing black and white before my eyes gave way to cataracts of grey. And so, blinking away tears that don’t come, hiding behind guilt that offers solace in the middle of nothingness, empty, I wonder. And, hollow, I wander.
The mountains took away my pain for a few days, only to have doubled my load in the descent into the Valley. The mounting feeling of dissatisfaction, of disappointment, of restlessness – I spoke of wanting to be a gypsy, I had allowed myself to be seduced by the free skirts and tinkling of silver coins on her hips, only to find that the gypsy’s curse have I and in truth, perhaps, I am nothing but a thief of forbidden tongues and lips. (If the truth wasn’t binding, I might find myself a connoisseur of lies.)
I steal from a pool of love that perhaps should never have been opened to me, I take more than my fair share. And in the trade off, the barter system, the replacing of one for another I give all that I have, I give not a care. And to top it off, I still long to drink from the oceans and the seas… so disgustingly greedy.
A free spirit is coveted much like beauty, but we know it fades to reality and the damp ugly that a free spirit is one that is settled to never be happy. To hate what you have, to get what you want only to find the wisdom of time and experience being replaced with question upon question. Drowning in question, losing consciousness in doubt and finding yourself in a vast lack of air.
The afterthought, the post of much thinking, the vomit of words all end up like broken threads – too many to throw away, not enough to spin on a spool. So threadbare, how do I weave words of expression, how do I soak in compassion, how do I find the light in my arse and the tail in my tale?
Where does understanding come from?
A spew of ideas, the jagged fragments of my actions, and I ask and I ask and I ask… where do I go from here?
Where can I find silence?