And Then There's You

Every reason to be happy
Every reason to feel bliss
Every reason to die satisfied
Every time I feel his kiss

And then there’s you

Every reason to look backward
Every reason to rewind
Every reason to weep silently
Every time you cross my mind

And then there's you

Tracing the Darkness...

As a child I always knew right from wrong. Light from darkness. Good from bad. I always knew the 'right' path, yet even as a child I remember looking over my shoulder, curious of the other path. The path that curved through the branches and brambles, the path that bent in the darkened woods. Not an evil path, but the other path. I always imagined traversing that road, of lighting a lone candle and tiptoeing through the moonlit branches. It is not frightening, it is eerily peaceful. Comforting.

Foolishly, as a young girl I imagined the ability to communicate not only with God, but his counterpart as well. My assumption was that I was special, that I existed on an alternate plane. These childhood ideals grew with me into adulthood. They manifest in various ways, in alternate expectations... Mina should be with Dracula, Christine should be with the Phantom, Angelina, not Jennifer, should be with Brad. Silly notions, but notions that comprise my reality. Jonathan Harker, Raoul the Vicomte de Chagny, and Jennifer Anniston are just too simple - too perfect.

I fight my alternate reality on a daily basis - it lurks in the background. Is this reality wrong? It does not follow the well-traveled path, but is it the wrong path? I view life with an 'alternate' vision, yet it is the vision of my birth. Are my faith and this vision mutually exclusive? How can they be if they have resided in my soul since before I can remember? This is my normal; this is my reality. This is how I was created.

The current's undertow strengthens.

Do I swim against the flow?

Do I relinquish control and be swept away?

Breaking Point

Peel back the layers and what do you find
A past of impurities, darkest design
Hidden with smiles and how do you do
My true self stays buried
I hide it from you

Another day over, another smile fades
And there you are waiting, I run to my escape
Hope of tomorrow bleeds from my veins
I can’t stop the bleeding
My will is slain

As I reach the breaking point I slip away
Yet no one has noticed until today
Questioning decisions, ill-advised schemes
But they’ve been brewing
Under the seams

So come on and blow my cover
The pain is too much to bear
The smiles are overwhelming
The tears, just too hard to share

An Oracle Once Said...

She spoke over me, she saw through me - said things I only think to myself, things I fear to say aloud. A 'God' Thing. A transparent 'you can no longer hide' thing. I am empty, I am loveless. How can I love others - myself even - when I am not loving the Source? Her words slip through my mind and heart as sand through a sieve... I must capture them while fresh... they fade quickly.

I must go; there must be time; there must be distance. This is good; this is ordained. I must die to everything I know; cleanse my body, mind, heart, soul.

Alone.
Completely.
Utterly.
Alone.

Will I come back? Will I sacrifice the things I hold dear? I must give "It" up. Anything and everything - whatever "It" is - it must die. I must die. I must drown myself in verse, but the verse must be true - must come from the Source. Place Life on the sacrificial alter in a complete release, not knowing what, if anything, will return to me. It is imperative to be at peace with that. My family, my marriage, my security, my sanity - all released, all torn from my fingers and removed from my sight.

"There was a time I didn't love him."
"I am there now."
"I didn't want to love him."
"I am there now.... What if?"
"There is fear in the 'What ifs'. Let them go. Stop asking."
"How can I love?"
"You must return to your first love."

My first love.

My first love is the Source. How can I return? Do I want to return?

If I do not, then I am dead either way.

This will be the death of me... and I fear I will be the death of him.

See it is I who created the blacksmith who fans the coal into flame, and forges the weapon fit for its work...

Meeting the morning

Every morning - at precisely 8:50am I pass by the tree. The maple's leaves exude deep reds, gold and orange. It grows quietly in the midst the of brick walkways of a bustling campus, shielded from sunlight for the better part of the day by the looming library. Yet, every morning, without fail, the sun pushes its way through the enormous surrounding evergreens and library edifice to cast an eerie glow on the maple. No human words exist in any language to adequately paint this glowing masterpiece. This tree - this everstanding creation - is glorified and in turn glorifies the creator . . . by simply being. It does nothing to attract the sun - day after day it stands, planted and rooted in the soil, serving its tree purpose. For approximately 10 minutes each day - perhaps as a reward, or perhaps as a call to beckon all to behold it - the sun pours its golden rays upon this unwavering tree. Pure light plays through the branches to bathe the leaves. Daily I am drawn to it, captivated by it's ethereal beauty. Mostly I walk by, casting longing looks in its direction . . . a faint smile plays on my lips. Yet, today . . . Today I sit with it - basking in the glorietta warmth, allowing the light to overtake me. I am held there for a while, silently, under this enigma. Golden fingers gently touch my hair, graze my face and dispel the coolness of the morning. It is a warm, luminescent blanket that enshrouds me. The maple and I - we sit. Silent. Stoic. Calm. And I do nothing. And I am warm.

Sorting things out . . .

Too often I keep things to myself - only letting them play out in my mind - never divulging the deep. How many times have I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and scribbled out a verse or thought of my own? I cannot count the number nor locate the pieces that contain my lost musings. This is for me - no one knows it exists. . . A place for my mind and soul to spout whatever lies there - I can no longer keep it locked inside for me to turn over and over. Free to pen loquacious reflections without receiving odd looks, free to be as simple as I want to be. How is it possible for me to sit next to someone and be thousands of miles away? My brain churning thoughts that could only originate from the Mariana Trench . . . and yet, when asked, "What are you thinking about" my reply is simply, "Nothing." Ah, "Nothing." Kingdoms fall on that very word - King Lear and Gloucester forfeited everything on the simple utterance of "Nothing." What do I forefeit when that weighted word springs forth from my lips? I assume the asker will not understand if I try to explain - why bother to express things so ingrained in me for someone else not to get it? Often times I feel words are wasted; there are times when words cheapen or rob silence. Why is it so difficult for humans to sit in silence? Must empty words constantly fill the air to displace awkward silence? Being uncomfortable is a good thing - it makes us look our vulnerability headlong in the face. We are all vulnerable - not all choose to acknowledge that fact. Perhaps that's my hidden agenda here . . . this forces me to physically view my insecurities and flaws. Flaws run deep and course through my veins, yet that is a part of me I'd rather keep silenced. A journal hidden in the midst of an open cyberspace - no one to read it but me. I feel the most vulnerable when people read my writings - perhaps that explains why I've written innumerable songs and only shared 5 at the most. It's like standing naked in a crowded room . . . This explains why, when I had free access to a recording studio and someone willing to produce & mix for free, I only laid down 3 tracks. The fear of facing myself far outweighs fear of an encounter with an axe murderer in dark, abandoned woods. When my writing is critiqued it's like rape - my brain is being pillaged by uninvited strangers. Yet, over and over, it's the uninvited strangers and strangeness of life that lead me to be that much more . . .