Come dance on countless whispers, in the pure atmosphere
High above, beyond all worries.
The same lonesome trumpet illuminates my night
Come float with me beyond all words.
I won’t forget you, weary soul
In this dimension where we found each other.
If I would turn the distance in a golden thread
It would lead me far away to the moon.
Our clay existence, the cage of our bodies are nothing
In this realm where our deepest thoughts ignite.
Sleepless nights sublimated in the dark shadow under your loving eyes
Will never ever keep you from floating in the air.
100 words, memyselfandela, November 2013
Photos: memyselfandela, November 2013
He was sitting on by the water in Mexico when it hit him how much he hated himself. Which kind of sucked. Because he should have been happy. He should have been ecstatic. After years of struggle and poverty and horrible physical pain (getting almost killed by a semi truck sucks too…) he finally had it. He finally had everything he ever thought he wanted. He was 30 years old, in good shape, good friends, professional success, fun toys, plenty of free time . . . Even better he was one of only three guys on a yoga retreat and was spending his days stretching and snorkeling and chugging margaritas with a bevy of beautiful, intelligent, passionate (and flexible) women.
He should have been happy. He should have been doing a victory lap around the mess that was his twenties and screaming to the moon about how he finally made it past childhood trauma and adulthood disappointment to become a “success.”
But he just couldn’t do it.
Nope. Instead of being happy, he was damn miserable. Angry. Emotionally nauseous and, worse yet, viciously angry at himself for not waking up to how good he had it.
One night he found himself sitting on the shore alone watching the waves come in. Everyone else had gone on to a bar to order large amounts of drinks in broken Spanish, but the bile in his throat and the voice in the back of his head wanted him to be alone. Alone and vulnerable.
It was pitch black but for the shine of the moon off the water and all he could feel was the pathetic bottle in his hand, the drink in his gut and the tension in his jaw threatening to break his teeth.
He wasn’t man enough to admit it, but he had tears in his eyes.
“Why?” he thought to himself in a silent whisper. “What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I just enjoy this?”
It was a rhetorical question, so he was pretty shocked when he got an answer. It came in a voice as dark as tar and as toxic as venom.
“Because you don’t deserve it,” the voice in the back of his head grumbled. “Because you’re evil and dangerous and anyone foolish enough to love you deserves to be harmed.”
He closed his eyes and could finally see it: what he really thought of himself. Not a man or even a boy, but a creature with claws and teeth and a cruel, cruel grin. A creature who’s only glee came from clawing at his heart and pulling him down and reminding him to never, ever feel even one moment of happiness.
He flew home a few days later feeling like he’d gotten into a duel with Godzilla and damn it, bloody Godzilla won. The entire time on the plane home his brain stormed and he counted down the hours until he could go see his therapist.
“How are you?,” she asked as he walked in, her eyes half squinting as she searched his face.
For an hour he let the words flow out like a dying breathe, rambling at Speedy-Gonzalez-pace, desperate to get every hatred and criticism and imagined crime out of his heart and into the world. Finally, after minutes that felt like days he looked his therapist in the eyes and said:
“I’m so sick and tired of hating myself , beating myself up , punishing everyone around me … I’m wondering what would happen if I just decided to stop and actually LIKE myself for a little while instead.”
The therapist looked at him with kind eyes and a half smile and said “Well, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”
And so he did.
Right then and there he decided to try liking himself – maybe even loving himself – for a while.
And at first the creature in his head and his heart raged like a angry lion and dragged its claws against the inside of his skull.
But instead of arguing he did something kind of weird.
He pointed and laughed. He dressed it up in silly shoes and ugly makeup and mocked it . And suddenly a weird thing happened: he felt this glowing freedom rising in his chest and this crazy, irrational smile pulling hard at the corners of his mouth.
Suddenly he felt . . . happy. Ecstatic.
For the next two weeks he walked around on a love-high. His friends asked him what the heck had happened. His enemies got confused when he was actually nice to them. And that beast in the back of his brain shrunk and shriveled and cried.
Of course, it wasn’t exactly as easy as that, for every time he would fail or feel ashamed about something or feel like some woman was getting close he would feel that creature rise up. He would feel that bile on his tongue.
But now . . . years later . . . here he is with nothing to hide.
And years and years of anger and pain turned into . . . something simpler. Nicer. More wonderful. He’s not into the “woo woo” stuff a lot of his friends are, but he is into this one simple fact:
“Happiness is a choice. Liking yourself / loving yourself is something YOU choose to do, no one can make you miserable or happy but YOU.”
900 words, memyselfandela, November 2013
would you have ever imagined that after exhausting all those rules of survival
there will still be something wonderful to discover?
dig deep in these eyes, there’s all the struggle and fight between
Heaven and Hell and all the layers of life suspended above the abyss.
the more profound your thought, the more painful the reality reflected,
so stop trying to understand the unexplainable quiet gifts of life and misteries.
life and love go way beyond frigid, inert and scared humans
you must swing between agony and ecstasy to embrace them.
restive soul dressed in wisdom and hungry for love, rest under my tree
I will quench your thirst with the kiss of an angel.
Walking through the valley of changes
I slay my demons, thinking what I have become
One by one they fall by my side , one by one I leave them behind.
I question my steps as I mirror my face in the deep fountain of the past.
Oh how often I drank from these tears…
I must carry on without them till I can drink the morning dew.
I get away, run away, fly away from the darkness within
Nobody there to know how to take my armour off these bleeding wounds
Without making me scream. No wine or oil to pour on my sorrows.
Be still my soul, sigh and listen
You can hear the distant voice of angels
Promissing you the light to guide you back Home.
April is Parkinson’s Awareness Month.
There’s a life lesson that has truly amazed me here on WP, it is the story of Benjamin Michael Prewitt, gifted painter and fantastic father and soul who was diagnosed not long ago with Young Onset Parkinson’s Disease, a disease that is not confined to older people and can affect people of any age.
As with many degenerative diseases, the ramifications and extent of the effects of PD are not generally known or understood until they touch our own lives or the lives of those whom we love.
Please take a moment to read Benjamin’s post and see his amazing work. He is an unique soul who turns his sorrow and pain into passion offered to this world. He offers his vision, feelings, paint, music, words, heart and soul so that others understand what Parkinson’s is. I bow in respect for his amazing sacrifice, keep fighting Benjamin!!!
Thank you for reading dear friends.
Much love to you all,
Ups, downs, blues,
Blood, sweat, tears,
Extreme ways, bright thoughts.
Never allow fear to infect your soul,
You are a fighter,
You are stronger than you imagine.
And life goes on.
33 words, memyselfandela, 2013, this is my entry for Trifecta
As the Communists were hunting them, Mihai, Ion and David decided to hide deep inside this forest, and so they became the only group of the resisance that ever managed to remain hidden and not detected for several years. The three of them, even though they had families, wives, children, had decided to never allow a soul know where their den was, after seeing how many times, despite all love, wives, mothers or children ended up by giving crucial information to the Political Police, sacrificing their own beloved without even knowing it while thinking that food or clothes or medicines will be sent to them.
By the news that the Communism was over and Ceausescu was dead the three men were absolutely reduced to silence, happy, finally free to return to their families and society but not knowing what a life in freedom ever could be.
They have left the den with a trembling soul though: a part of their life was left there and nobody could ever know what moments or feelings they have lived in that small chamber digged underground with bare hands in a winter’s night.
Sometimes they return to this place just to find again a part of their lost soul, as what for others looks abandoned will always mean only one thing for them : life .
this is my entry for the Five Sentence Fiction Challenge