This gives me chills to read, and I’m the one who wrote it. That is, I think I wrote it, unless I have a puter poltergeist, a crazy poet hackmeister who slips strange pained ravings into my system. I thought I’d post it here, in part because it typifies (or perhaps justifies) the title of my blog, in part to challenge myself to reveal a voice that tends to stay hidden even from me.

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I seek release of ancient death, the kind that lodges in shoulders and makes its home there forever, never shifting, expanding or serving any shred of hope on the platter of my life. My flesh and bones are home to much that is not me, entangled in my roots and veins, training my new cells to become like them as the old ones grew and died. The torment takes place on levels too small and multiplistic for me to be aware. Even if I could, there is another issue besides what is held in my tissues and organs. I have a resister in my psyche, a hidden lifehater which keeps my motivation at minimum. I have a leak in the basement which leaches out life force, and desire cannot catch fire for there is no container in which it can grow beyond its vulnerable infancy. My tiny flames are extinguished in the drafts that whistle through my breached borders, claiming all in the name of ancient agreements someone made for me, claiming to know my mind.

Where was I at the time? I have sought to answer that question, quested, but that triggers a contest between my seeking self and the resisting strictures that control my very soul, saying, “Thou shalt not, no matter what, grow beyond the bounds of your bonsai pot.”

I say, I care not what contracts were signed in my blood if my consciousness was not aware of the signing and if my will and body were not aligned with the action. My heart’s desire is new, now, a tremulous fire held sacred in the deep places, jealously guarded and hoarded by my patient lifelover which has waited eons. It will not chance the loss or risk a cost beyond my capacity to bear.

I writhe in the agonies of twisted essence seeking release. I groan and moan with the need to adopt postures impossible for the flesh I bear, I jitter and twitch, I itch and stagger. Calling in light and help from the core of creation, that which fosters growth and continuity, I commit to enduring what must be endured for the sake of what may be born in its aftermath. I am patient, or I am composed of partly-patient parts which is nearly as good. I am ready to meld myself together, to align into a living force in the world.

I think I am ready. I want to become ready. I seek readiness. Help me, those ones whose role it is to help, who seek pieces like me who have fallen through the cracks and now struggle to find our way back to the light. I open to receive to the extent that I can, to the extent that I must.

This entry was posted on Saturday, May 12th, 2007 at 7:07 pm and is filed under truth and strangeness. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.