This Sentient Sphere

I live inside a big, transparent sphere with a Blue Ocean for a sky and clouds made of Love…And it envelopes everything.

When I stare up, I feel as if can see its spherical shape – like I can see the bend coming in the distance; that place where the horizon breaks and begins to descend.

And in this sphere, transparent and evanescent, I feel myself reflected.

And if I look hard enough, I can almost see it from above, from Outside this Gigantic Sphere, as if hovering on top.

I see it free and detached from me, but somehow linked by something far deeper and more transcendent than time or space.

I see it hold everything like glue. I see it as the Base — the Foundation of Everything.

I see its soil — made from grass, dirt and blood — feed the life that grows on top.

And then I see the Life which feeds on itself to start over again.

I see it adorned and set in motion by the birds that glide from one end of the sphere to the other.

I see it as it really is: Vast, Expanse and Finite, too — almost mortal.

I see the outer shell of the sphere eroded and stomped on, crusty and bleeding.

I see its body battered and torn, overrun with skyscrapers and chimneys billowing black smoke.

I see its lungs filled with fog, tar and oil, and suffocating to death.

I see it unable to move and constrained, replete and bursting at the seams with Walking Scavengers.

And yet…I still see the sphere for what it really is: that place that holds Everything. That which feeds the weak and quenches the thirsty…but the strong and greedy, too.

I see it flush with green leaves and innocent like a child, or like the young Gazette, who’s beautiful and free and also the prey.

I see remote places, untouched and unscathed by the Walking Scavenger, who Builds with Scars and whose Blood runs thick with Mortar and Tar; the Scavenger who with Steel and War has taken us so Far…and yet has never seen or felt this Sphere – my Star.

I see the sphere trying to survive and play host at the same time.

But the longer I look, the darker the sphere gets and the angrier the river runs.

It’s now hard to look into the Sphere, when it’s blocked by Lightning and Rain that falls from the ground…backwards like the moment I first came here.

The clouds have grown angry and ditched Love for Revenge, and the blue ocean runs black like oil and death.

I live inside this Sentient Sphere which I cannot touch but always Feel…This sphere that holds and reflects me…

But then dark turns to black and cold turns to ice…And I see Nothing More.

Wings of Fire

In a few days she’ll be back, wrapped inside a thunderstorm and with wings made of fire.

She’ll visit me in that garden where we first met — under the tree with no name and leaves heavy with iron.

And together we’ll drink the venom that bleeds from the tree, and which turns Eden into a dying mire.

Then I, too, will get my wings and together we will fly. High into the heavens where mortals go to die.

Nothing happens

Nothing happens on a calm day like today.//Nothing can happen, when the day is just dead.//What’s the impulse to be felt, if today’s end has started again?

It’s so quiet out here, inside today’s dream.//So quiet, indeed, I hear my thoughts scream.

And I can hear myself going insane.//Paralyzed in a way I’ve never felt.//There’s just too much time to spend with myself.//On a calm day like today.

For inside there’s a spiral full of feelings and answers.//Though the questions to ask are a different matter.//Because they just don’t exist, and if they do, I don’t have’em.

And that’s why nothing can happen on a day like today.//On a calm day full of pity and dread.

Even clouds and the sun have felt the depression of today.//The sorrow and heaviness that lingers in the air.//So they disappeared behind a sea of mist, waiting for a new day.//And all that’s left is fog and despair.

Yet the distance yonder is sprinkled with song.//Whistles and twitters and croaks all adorn.//A calm and dreadful day with no love.//A day that perpetually ends and gives nothing more.

The orchestra defies the sky’s petulance, blasting from all corners of The Dome.//And with sounds unimaginable, creatures fill the sky’s deathly void.

Then powerful winds make the plants cringe, and though I fear it, the orchestra doesn’t flinch.//Or waiver.//Or give into the rotten stench.//Of a day like today.

But they’re the only ones that survive a calm day like today.//A day full of fog and the promise of rain.

Then a reflection of a beast behind and in front and within me appears in a single stroke.//Crying for help inside a mirror I’ve never known.//It stares back at me, unflinching, and for dear life it begs.//Yet I’m helpless in my paralysis and I know we’ll never see each other again.//So I apologize with my eyes and pray for the rain.//To flood this place while we keep at bay.//But in the time it takes me to blink, the reflection’s gone.//The moment has passed.//The beast is no more.

And that’s all that happens on a calm day like today.//On a day full of fear and loss and songs of dismay.

Nothing else happens sitting here, mourning the day’s perpetual end.//Nothing happens because the mind has bent.//It has become warped by the promise of pain.//Of a pain ushered by today’s disdain.

Vanity.

I thought I was free from it. Or, at the very least, I thought I fought hard against succumbing to it. But I’m not so sure about that anymore. It’s like acid burning through armor. It’s like horse blinders that keep me infatuated with one thing: my own fortune.

And what a miserable fortune it is!

It stares back at me with a sly grin, knowing its effects on me. It feeds on itself every single time I look down at the phone to check for the signal — for that validation in zeros and ones. It taunts me, knowing I revile it, yet beg it to stay close by.

It destroys what it loves most, just so that I can call on it some more. It loves pain. But it doesn’t feel it; it just lives it. Completely unbeknownst to its host. But it’s there: Feeding on the last few memories that come across the cables of information and life.

And it’s there because it knows we tried to escape. Because we grew our wings before they were given to us. So now it attacks us at every moment it gets, and it tries to drown us whenever we try to forget.

What’s left to do….but fight The Beast.

Though I know while I do, I’ll feed it, too.

THE WHITE BUTTERFLY

Originally written September 1, at 3 p.m.

******

Tranquil. That’s how I’d describe the moment. But not a good type of tranquility: it isn’t the kind that simply drowns out the background noise and let’s you get lost in your own thoughts; it’s not the kind that soothes every nerve to the point of ecstasy. This tranquility is almost superficial. It is what is imposed on you by the elements – by circumstance.

It is the dead calm of the day. It is the single and distant bird whistle or squawk. It is the all-too-audible humming of some machine. It is the lonesome white butterfly making its way through the wind, seemingly lost. The sky torments me: the dead, grey lump above me that threatens me with a deluge, but dares not move a muscle. It doesn’t even breathe hard, for the trees don’t dance. A few shake their leaves slowly, almost like a nervous wave, but they don’t move like in times of life: when you feel alive in Her Bosom. No. Now, they just wave stealthily, as if hiding.

But from what? Perhaps from the same thing that everyone else seems to be hiding from, whatever it may be. This desolate place speaks loudly enough. The lonesome and lost white butterfly reflects this place – this moment in time, which is naught but confusing and lost: it glides back the other way now, flapping its tiny wings in the opposite direction, hoping – really hoping – to finally find its way…a path. But she’s blossomed already; she flies with full confidence, even in the face of error, for she knows to always search. Not the rest. Not these larvae, still cocooned in their homes, fearful of the dead calm outside their doors. Like me, they mourn this tranquility, but they fear it to the point of death and paralysis. They dare not storm the beaches; to come out of their vessels – of their cocoons. They remain larvae. But my Wings Are Tearing Skin.

And, as they say, that a butterfly’s wings in one place births a hurricane in another, so has my metamorphosis begun. The skies are parting and the oceans’ reflection begins to emerge. Somewhere, the sun shines, for change is inevitable. Evolution never stops. Still lost and nervous — “dizzy and unable to stand on my own” — but flying. My wings move to the tune and winds of the “Great Magnet”  — to wherever it may lead. Avoid the wasps along the way by manoeuvring skillfully: the white butterfly glides, flies, weaves in and out; she knows to survive to see the Ocean in all its glory: gleaming under the twilight.

Alas! Wings are Truly Earned!

An Arrow Into the Night-Sky: Searching

“Call to me and I will answer you, and I will tell you great and mighty things, which you do not know…” – Jeremiah, 33:3

******

His divergent mind sought not to believe, for that notion birthed the germ of its own negation: the possibility of being wrong. That wasn’t enough for him, for he loathed the thick bog to which so many have succumbed: the muddied waters that soil the opened mind; those swamps where uncertainty lurks inside; the contaminated oceans that separate “Sinners” from a “Divine.”

Inside such a conflicted mind, even to be convinced was ne’er the goal. Thunder and lightning sure roared within, but they were merely 24 years old. And, he finds, that to be convinced, despite its apparent appeal, is only the acceptance of someone else’s will — their swill. It’s essence is accepting defeat; its virtue is in someone else’s skills. Finally, it demands a faith in something  the heart does not feel; faith in something to which our all-too-human cries could never, in a thousand years, reach nor appeal.

But, Alas! Inside his addled mind of turmoil and calm, of here and there, of his and everyone’s, of all and nothing, there is a clamour — a call — a loud request wrapped in armor. He clamours because he wants to be heard. He seeks the Answer because he wants the next step.

“Faith is no excuse for pusillanimity!” he growls aloud, for he’d chosen sides long ago. Rather, it is a virtue, but which he wants earned, not bought.

So he awaits…Awaits for an Answer to wash down upon him. For a light or a voice to illuminate the darkness. For a sign or a feeling to jolt the nerves. For the First Lightning to strike the night. For the kind of knowing that only he who is, and he who wants, can ever truly come to ignite.

And he remembers, as he vanishes in smoke, that faith is worth all when Earned, but nothing when Bought.