The title came to me during a meditation. The rest wrote itself.
It seems that my heart is becoming a regular Saturday night thorough fare for the damned of love who want to "try again". They love and leave and make fantasy and I find myself more often that not lying in an empty bed, tying myself up in fetal position. I scream and I scream, or my soul
screams, into the pillow, "Who is here to love me and how the hell did I end up in this place yet again?"
I half expect the roof to collapse. And my soul with it. A tragic and ironic burial of the best neglected parts of who I am. I peek through my fingers to find that the ceiling is a perfectly strong foundation. In fact, not a crack. The only blemish is the skeletal remians of a spider. "Must have been I love," I mutter, flopping onto my belly.
In this position, there is the cell phone at my right hand. I stare at it, no, through it, as if it is a portal to my lover. I imagine picking up the phone, hearing his voice, broken, choking, as he says, "Just checking in."
But he'd never say, "Just checking in." He'd say, "The situation is at least half the misery of your personal creation." And we would quarrel simply because I hate that he is right on this rare occasion. The phone remains silent, as if to say, "Let's refuse the bloody mess of misery."
The drone of steady rain breaks into my imaginary conversation, pulling me back to the room and to the bed. "What if the rain were to coalesce into an epic flood", I wonder. It could take the brick and tile of the apartment and the sorrow of my soul with it.
A voice pulls me back to the rain and the room and the bed, "Fear. All this lonely fear. Imagine if the world did flood, what is the worst that might happen? You're so damn stubborn, you'd likely build a boat and sail it on that unexpected ocean. Just imagine, love, simply imagine that, on the other hand, the rain falls and no flood occurs. It just rains and rains and saturates the ground until it stops raining. In either case, nothing
grows, nothing dies, nothing lives, nothing suffers, nothing benefits. It rains because it's rain. In time, you might see that it's all ok. It really truly is all ok if you just wait."
Truth rolls around in my head like a marble in a shadow box. "What if?" Perhaps famous last words.
"Or famous first words, if you look at it that way. Sure, rain falls. Then it stops. Rain is merely not the point that I am trying to get across. Such watered down nights of tears and panicked fears force a soul into space where one must face the spiritual haggis of denied pain. In all common sense, rain is a state of constant transition. In this way, rain mirrors emotion. What if you let the rain be rain? Perhaps grief might become grief. The rain falls and then it stops. The spirit grieves and then it moves on."
Poetry by inanna
Read 660 times
Written on 2009-08-25 at 04:55
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The Rain Falls, Then it stops
The Rain Falls, Then it StopsIt seems that my heart is becoming a regular Saturday night thorough fare for the damned of love who want to "try again". They love and leave and make fantasy and I find myself more often that not lying in an empty bed, tying myself up in fetal position. I scream and I scream, or my soul
screams, into the pillow, "Who is here to love me and how the hell did I end up in this place yet again?"
I half expect the roof to collapse. And my soul with it. A tragic and ironic burial of the best neglected parts of who I am. I peek through my fingers to find that the ceiling is a perfectly strong foundation. In fact, not a crack. The only blemish is the skeletal remians of a spider. "Must have been I love," I mutter, flopping onto my belly.
In this position, there is the cell phone at my right hand. I stare at it, no, through it, as if it is a portal to my lover. I imagine picking up the phone, hearing his voice, broken, choking, as he says, "Just checking in."
But he'd never say, "Just checking in." He'd say, "The situation is at least half the misery of your personal creation." And we would quarrel simply because I hate that he is right on this rare occasion. The phone remains silent, as if to say, "Let's refuse the bloody mess of misery."
The drone of steady rain breaks into my imaginary conversation, pulling me back to the room and to the bed. "What if the rain were to coalesce into an epic flood", I wonder. It could take the brick and tile of the apartment and the sorrow of my soul with it.
A voice pulls me back to the rain and the room and the bed, "Fear. All this lonely fear. Imagine if the world did flood, what is the worst that might happen? You're so damn stubborn, you'd likely build a boat and sail it on that unexpected ocean. Just imagine, love, simply imagine that, on the other hand, the rain falls and no flood occurs. It just rains and rains and saturates the ground until it stops raining. In either case, nothing
grows, nothing dies, nothing lives, nothing suffers, nothing benefits. It rains because it's rain. In time, you might see that it's all ok. It really truly is all ok if you just wait."
Truth rolls around in my head like a marble in a shadow box. "What if?" Perhaps famous last words.
"Or famous first words, if you look at it that way. Sure, rain falls. Then it stops. Rain is merely not the point that I am trying to get across. Such watered down nights of tears and panicked fears force a soul into space where one must face the spiritual haggis of denied pain. In all common sense, rain is a state of constant transition. In this way, rain mirrors emotion. What if you let the rain be rain? Perhaps grief might become grief. The rain falls and then it stops. The spirit grieves and then it moves on."
Poetry by inanna
Read 660 times
Written on 2009-08-25 at 04:55
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Bhakta Raj Giri |
