The night was quiet and he was afraid to be poetic. In a culture so dumed down by peoples own self loathing sloth like demeanor they had all turned spiteful. Spiteful of anyone who sought something that was out of the ordinary and not in comparison with their tarnished and dead dreams. They wanted nothing more than to have those like them around so that they might feel ok once again. For never having tried anything was the biggest let down of all. To have never made oneself feel vulnerable is an aching anticlimactic end to an otherwise beautiful life. This was Mike’s life and he was only 22.
An intoxicating sense filled him as he struck familiar notes on the piano, alone late at night playing Longing-Love by George Winston. He didn’t care if it wasn’t a classic. It spoke to him and it was brilliant. Nothing lit his hands but the small lamp that resided on the corner of the piano. Everything in the moment was poetic perfection, but he was afraid. He was just as much afraid of his own self deprecating thoughts as he was of anyone else’s scornful remarks.
It wasn’t a world for poetry any more. Too many people had been damned by their ability to feel brilliance. Even when that brilliance was the brilliance of hurt and pain. Poetry was deemed, weak, faggy or whiny. But poetry wasn’t. Poetry was a strong resounding voice that took as much of the human spirit as it could and held it to the page so that it might impact the next person to read it. Poetry was more powerful than any other form of literature at people’s disposal. Nothing can capture humanities entropy quite like poetry. Nor can it evoke the human desire to feel. To yearn and hurt and love all in the same instant. To understand ones own complicated self is a tormented and arduous ecstasy of light and brilliance that makes you blind to the truth that is around you. Poetry rang out of every moment in that room; alone, with only the piano to keep him company.
For all of the good pop music had done it had turned poetry into a whiney, love sick kid. Real poetry was all about self exploration and investment in your discovery of the world. It was about facing ones own demons and laying bare your chest. Offering only your words to sway the axe mans hand. Real poetry meant you were lost, even from those who might pass judgment. And then it came to him.
Where is my face when it’s lost in the mirror?
I look onto my eyes and I do not see myself
I see someone who is lost
Not alone
Does my face not belong to me?
What is it beyond my eyes that beckons me?
Where do I loose myself and find the whole?
If I am not me than when will I become me?
Do I get to be?
Are my words lost upon your scared heart?
Don’t falter in your step
Where is my face when I am lost in my soul?
It may not have been brilliance or even coherent to those unwilling to look upon its inner workings. But to those who dared to venture, the truth was there. Somewhere, lost in a real between Nod and word. A secret lay there, waiting only to be scene and eclipsed by the brilliance of the love that would be bestowed upon it. Darkness can only consume us for so long. Just like the life breathing force that is water, light and love will find its way into our minds and our hearts. Fear not the beast that rides in on the dusk. What does that mean?
No comments:
Post a Comment