Angry Heart

Before I start getting alarmed emails from this post, allow me to preamble any shock at such a dark disposition with this piece from my footlocker of past thoughts and feelings.  They have no bearing on my present (contented) agreement with life’s flow ~

Yet, let me be honest to admit that every story has its dark passages, and mine is no different. What better time to share frigid weather and bleak horizons than during the movement towards the ending cycle of the year?

He felt the departure, before she spoke. 

The intimate demonstrations of their unresolved disagreement, it was sticky smoke the kind that lingers and never fully dissipates; it just clung. He could recount those unspoken whispers in his head,

    “this will lead to no good, it will only end in tears”

No, even before then, when on occasions their eyes would momentarily lock. The spiritual affirmation of his greatest dread would descend into cognitive clarity with a pressing desire to predict without emotional attachment an undeniable assessment; this was the finish.

Yet in fear’s performance they would both pretend nothing had changed, until unbearable in the silent cries for release, one would fault the other into resignation and there would be mutual suffering.  He reads his books, can even take up his imagined canter of the author speaking to him alone.  As if being mentored in the ways of the wounding hearts his studying the nuances would prescribe what to avoid; but all along polishing skills to achieve the results quicker.

   The mind suckles on energy it can find, like a feral dog sniffing out discarded scraps.  A desire to continue the search prods ever forward from decaying flesh crammed into the recess gums of canines.  Too much of this or that will shift the course of wander similar to a indiscernible course change of a great ship on the seas as it navigates the currents unheralded below the dancing white capped waves. 

   Reading Dylan Thomas while in a soothing bath, the author calls up haunting dark thoughts of injustice in the world of the flesh.  In our self inflicted bleeding cuts we harbor words like ‘rejection’ and only when the healing delivers scars will the fingers trace the violent act and mutter ‘abandoned’ instead.

   Where does the wandering take any purveyor of the past but to the corpse of their recollection? Then, rewrite the story to justify and comfort dashed faith in divine gifts to personal justice.  Crying for a return to innocence we unwrap gilded freedom and like a disappointed child toss it to the corner unappreciated and ignored; we wanted better. 

  We wanted the world to beckon to our command and produce the fruits of happiness as an endless submission to our whims. Too bad for such a childish desire; we were not born to be right.

    He drops the book to the floor then delves into another.  Something more popular, the science of tricking the mind into accepting a truth that tells him he commands his pain. As if loosing rein on the world was a consolation prize to the power of delusion.  What joys can be had in personal agreement with unfair? Does that validate a reaction of hostility? Of violence in response to a perceived wrong? 

   He recalls the angel’s voice of a maiden that challenged his self-deception.  She would leave few clues beyond her own behavior, distancing herself of similarities while accusing him of the skullduggery they both incessantly practiced.  He would hear his own voice in agreement as if a salesman had divided a couple when considering purchase of a product that neither wanted nor could afford. 

   In isolation, now judge him to blame and deem punishment suitable as great hunks of guilt, like the flesh that famished wild dog would gorge itself on; then scurry to its young regurgitating it for the benefit of survival.  Damn it, where is the hope for peace when the dance is so overpoweringly seductive?  Where is the decency and respect for life that should abound, but is trashed as substandard to the vanity and envious pride?

   He told them he was unwell. 

They told him he was pale, did he need someone to drive him home? 

Then what?

   What of the morrow without transport?

Think beyond the moment, and if so doing, find a technique for carrying boiling water to a destination while not paying attention to where you are.  Watch those discarded trinkets, you will stumble and end up with scalded toes.  The sun sets in its nonchalant manner as the oriental music used to ease him sounds discordant with his present mood.  He is flesh and it is failing his desires.  As one after the other of his worldly pleasures are removed from his fantasy and shown in the light of truth as being just a distraction on his long journey to where he had not charted.  He has spent his energy on mending a house that falls apart with his tending.

A cycle of invested focus that someday, completed, sell to a stranger.  As in retiring from an occupation realizing it was no vocation.  Another haunt, another loss, dismissal was embarrassment’s fashioned messenger for refusal.  Where his passion dissolves to comfort and all along smiling faces will speak of the blessings.  As he will mutter his discontent on why would he not be pleased in such abundance?