A Bloody Prose

That salty bloodlust for survival

I not just learned how to identify it

I was obsessed by it

I just happen to have been lucky to stand above noticing it too much

Excited, as well as grateful, that I didn’t have to grow accustom to my paralyzing terror  It was simply a stupefying wrong, so out of touch of with my instincts

I was in emotional freefall 

Numb to what it all meant, this version of what the long run could look like.

I was possessed by this reoccurring daydream about how it would be so wonderful

to share my love

who I was

what I thought about how much I loved them

what I worried about

the things that thrilled me, made me laugh, made me cry, made me think in new ways and of course all of my most personal secrets. 

I’d treasure that and participate with enthusiasm and gratitude for sharing me that way. 

I though she also sought that. 

My foolish heart seeing that ‘with me’ was desired 

So I didn’t know. 

And that’s a little sad.  No, that’s a lot sad…and my loving convinces not. 

Nor changes as is. 

I’ve learned clarity…and will recognize authentic in the future. 

I’m mournful for her ways. 

I doubt her success to obtain those cherished aspects. 

Because she fears; you cannot seduce love with empty vows of always…

not for long anyways.

I used to take a pounding heart as a very good sign,

my spirit whispered, “be true to your love” 

Eventually I realized that terror does similar things,

just maybe I got it wrong. 

When I should have been running away for my life, I was letting my guard down and moving in closer.

But really, what good does it do to talk about sad things in the past anyway?

Those bones have dried out and give nothing to the living

Just something to stumble over whenever the notion to take a stroll through the graveyard might be something invigorating.

Champions Of Love

Champions of love are not born, but rather they are forged.  They do not acquire combat skills, nor are they trained in the deadly arts.
       Yet they remain the vanguard to all that we hold sacred. Our fables and durable tales would have us conjecture a physical stalwart warrior; a knight in armor that shines and depicts invincibility....but life’s wisdom whispers instead, "come discover truth."

   The shield and sword of the Champion is love itself.  They are not stern nor rigid, but supple and flexible; glowing with inner fire.  Eyes, that were to be thought of as vigilant ~ peering into the darkness seeking threat and danger, are instead found to be soft and moist, almost tearful; all accepting.  To find the Champion’s hands, one would attempt to predict appendages that should be calloused and sinewy from wielding swords, or slinging arrows into the enemy. Yet consistency's glee sparks into validity to find it were not so. For the Champions hands are defined, supple, and warming to the flesh of those whom obtain comfort at the gentle strength and delicate touch.

       Where to find such Champions?  We cajole them from their slumber, all around us.  For they sleep in the hearts of each and every one of us.  When awaken they will never sleep again in regret...in lament....or in foreboding.
       The task for the Champion is to become an echo. Some have food to nurture the spirit; some possess salves to heal past wounds.  Some demonstrate finesse in kindness, while others still~ spin tales as clothing for the comfort in a life of troubled journey.  

Each Champion brings to the banquet their gift...their talent.  All are one family, when the dawn of recognition and affiliation becomes known, then liken gaily wrapped presents under the holiday trees, they are enthusiastic by nature so then revealed by giving away their abundant treasures.   As a marvel can be suddenly noticed, so can this magic. Its telltale sign is clearly their unpracticed generosity.  
Authentic identity can be easily discerned as the presence of unbiased care. The word has been translated for eons, up until this living moment. Here, today, we call it "friend".  'Where the heart rest'

Short and Sweet

Aristotle is credited for revealing that what we believe to be real is based upon our interpretation of the external world.

Rene Descartes broke the barriers of discussion concerning existence with "I think, therefore I am" (aka I exist.)

In other words

Aristotle:  "Reality is a slave to my perception"

Descartes:  “Ya think?”