Humans

We think that if we carefully contain ourselves

Inside our scant and small stretched hides

That we will not be judged

Cursed with criticism

And if we do the “right” thing

We shall abide in that all encompassing comfortable thing

Called acceptance

But I have discovered we are not made for acceptance

Such a beige coloured useless feeling

It serves no one

Least of all our truly wild spirit

Soul

Heart

No

We are designed to love

To burn

To insert ourselves into other people

At least

Metaphorically

To find their weaknesses and strengthen them

Love them

Dearly

We are tonics

We are missing parts of puzzles

We are manufactured for one another

Not just for ourselves

And yes

In doing so

Living so

Even with deliberate and intentional care

We may wind up hurting and drawn too far

Come to near

Shedding tears

But is this not just the blood escaping

From a still beating heart

The colour of clarity is clear

As is the tear

Rolling down a cheek

And in the spilling

Pressure is released

Listen to me my internal eternal friend

You cannot hold time

It is no more solid than the wind

You cannot cling

Everything moves through

Passes

Little lasts on this planet forever

Even stones rot eventually

And turn to fiamonds

Dust

Rust

So let it move

Blow

Buffet

Cost you more than you think you can pay

Dig deeper

Don’t be so damn small

You can’t hold time

That’s what memory is for.

A new post about care of the soul and how it contrasts with adherence to discipline is up on Substack this morning.

*And this by Rilke – I was in turmoil the other night, my own writing could not untangle me but Rilke’s did.

Which is why we write – both for ourselves and others. If writers do not describe and poets cease to share the thoughts of their subconscious murmurs and patterns – the world will become a place of wasted gas and sermon that serves no one in the places they most need it.