He looks toward the stars, staring stoned with a suffered gaze. The thoughts that have cradled his imagination as of late have been spoiled with an over processed poisonous perception of himself.
At least this is what he thinks, and this thought alone is probably being diluted with a healthy dose of self-doubt. This exact moment’s perception of himself clenches at him like the white-knuckled clasp of a man gone mad behind the wheel of desire. He is aware that this inward perception of himself is self-inflicted from the sound of his own inner arrogant voice—that parasitical ego—dancing wild through the tranquility of his peaceful heart.
He knows it will pass, much like the forgiveness of time, tomorrow holds the key to the land of milk and honey. But like desire, these spells of self-destruction were beginning to wreak havoc down each and every avenue in the city he calls his artistic life—his thoughts were becoming more mentally congested, which in turn, brought everything to a creative standstill. Yet, above and beyond all reasoning, he felt he needed direct knowledge of precisely where subject and object coincided, or else, risk confusing the moon with his own finger pointing at it.
He understands that all of this so-called suffering, he catapulted himself upon the sandcastle his own conscious. As the sandcastle crumbles, would he have to build it back up with an inner revolution? He sometimes thinks so, but he knows that a sandcastle made up of his own chaos is just a few farts in the wind away from his soul being turned to dust. He must settle his mind down and allow the chaotic and hazy cloudiness to clarify itself within himself via extended contemplation.
He always knew the wounds of his life would heal with a slight scar. That he would eventually fall back into the flesh of his own genuine being. Still, he would always scratch at the scars upon his soul, with the sole intention of aggravating the past. Because of this, his soul would never be the same, yet he still sometimes thought that by revisiting the memories of his past, they might somehow send him spiraling with reckless abandon towards the future.
While the possibility of this does exist, the depths at which he would need to seek within himself would take him much deeper into the darkness of the wilderness in which he already sits. This is something he thinks he is not yet truly prepared for, but we’ve yet to see the final score, and besides all that noise, he has one of those things they call a flashlight.
The path is there though, a bit overgrown, hard to follow sometimes, and probably arid as hell, but it is there, nevertheless. Will he ever really know where it goes, how far, or how deep? In all honesty, he hasn’t a clue, never really did, but this is no longer a concern of his, as it is now left to the hands of fate and the universe to decide.
He understands that the spiritual passage is not for the faint of heart.
It’s just as well he knows that since the beginning of this creative journey seven years back, he had to create an atmosphere of hope around his words, because they will forever carry the content of his posthumous existence, and all the while, maybe, just maybe, leave something of worth behind him for his child to learn from, and probably even judge for quite some time;)
He comprehends that the future of the world will not be changed by his way with words, but the future of our children could be, and that may in turn help them to change the world. Again, who really knows?
This point though, he must always keep in mind when he starts questioning the “why” upon the fringe of all things external and out of his control. After all, the silent mind merely whispers at the edge of eternity, like a light fringe of foam upon the lip of an eternal wave.
He has learned that salvation is not necessarily a reward, but a very wild and normal consequence of all of his creative choices. If not even to go so far as to say that salvation is a natural process of the ongoing inner healing in which he tries to achieve for himself on a daily basis, as well as that of his innate disposition.
This being what pushes him in the enduring direction of his own voluntary inward search that seeks some higher purpose in the throes of a lost and creative life. He knows that all of these words, the poems, and every other little rhyme are but gentle footsteps down this long and winding nomadic expedition in search of his own true self, his spirit, his soul, and maybe even his one true calling.
He can, and he will forever attest that the creative path is filled with treacherous steps that lean into all sorts of hidden angles and deceptive patterns. But they are his steps, they are his choices, and they have put him right here, upright with pen in hand. And at this precise moment, he understands that his hand and said pen, tilt upon a geometric point where the horizontal meets the vertical like an invisible cross upon a page. Therefore he knows that this creative path is meant for only him.
And he is very aware that others path's are nothing like his. They are theirs, and theirs alone. But should our paths ever come to meet anew, or maybe even meet again, let us believe it will forever be sweet and full of everlasting hope.
On a good day he now knows that those he thought he was helping to edify, in the end he learned that they were—in fact—helping him to edify himself by teaching him life and love's most valuable lesson. And that is, not giving up on it.
He is though, still sometimes too often filled to the brim with the unorganized facility of his own meandering thoughts and the sublimity of his own expectations of reason to pay much attention to such things. But it is time to pull the plug on all the negative thoughts he loves to hate about himself with the fashion of his old positive ways once again.
It took him a long ass time, but he has finally learned how to outwit the craftiness of his own parasitic thoughts, only because the answers to the damning questions he often asks himself bring about even more questions about things in which he has absolutely no control over.
But it is today—as we mark it—that he has finally taught himself a very valuable lesson within the inner work towards the betterment of trying to fix his own bad habits, instead of worrying about everyone else’s.
It was then he laughed with a joy that shook from the core of his entire being, all the way up to his head and down to his toes. It was such a laugh that it put a little change in his pocket, because he no longer would have to pay any overpriced medical bills, except for the root canal he signed himself up for today. But it was a laugh that made his spirit feel alive and almost whole for the first time in a while. It was a laugh that howled from the depths of his ethereal soul. And again, he can hear providence calling and he knows he has to answer it, without having any intention of ever hanging up on it again.
And yet, by and by his smile rises with a crescent moon and a matchstick sun shining down upon him, it rests upon his weary-eyed thoughts with a clarity that had long been lost in the haze of himself.
Yes indeed, the boy had laughed himself wide awake from a really bad dream, quite possibly a different man. But I'd be the first to guess, we’ll just have to wait and see about all of that;)
And so it is, with that being said, I leave you with a little truth.
"What we say about love isn’t what counts, but what we let it say through us...that my friends, is what this life is all about."
Til the next time,
Ryan Love
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