...and if someday you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free...
have you ever had that moment? that stop--pulse beats, throbbing drum, timbre natural and pure--the sole accompanyment to the phenomenon, the miracle? that instant, incredible, undeniable, when you know it is a repeat? this moment, this situation, has happened already--wisps of a dream fortelling this swirl in your conscience and you can read the words before he speaks them, see her hand moves before she conceives the strike--and it is the second chance, the opportunity to do it again? the repeat?
have you ever had that moment? that stop--eyelids flutter, swiftly unsure, holding pace to the images rolling through the mind's eye--and it is another time, another place, another you even, and it is completely different and wrong yet so perfect a fit because it is--it was--once your life, this. this haunting image. this tragic vision of beauty or horror, sweet jovialty or bitter betrayal...the winding garden path, laughter and ribbons, spring in france--but not a garden of kings, no, never, that is beyond the realm of imagination...and you awaken, and it is nothing...stop--breath catches, forced aside, its place usurped by scenes of something inexplicable...and here it is, the thing which has traced a path through your life, seen behind closed eyelids every night, seen in dark corners when the mind wanders...falling silk almost, sweet velvet to the touch, uncertain texture, unknown origin...even hints of what it might be are simple conjectures made by an ailing mind, a desperate mind...because it is your past, once it was your present, and the fabric tumbled before me like liquid, fluid ebon quicksilver that pooled at my fingertips, flowing over and through, dancing to the vibrance of my laughter. this is a completely different memory than the garden. this is a completely different memory than when i stopped allie before she lashed out. this is completely different than the night of my childrens' death. this is completely different than the night of my escape.
who am i?
am i just raving, confusion and imagination marring impressions of my own life? subtle plotlines adopted into my own memory from pages of text read and forgotten long ago? backgrounds in epic films i have no memory of seeing? or is it something more, something beyond figmentary illusion? fragmentary delusion? i don't know.
some of these memories, dreams, whatever they may be
are far more real than anything of my own life.
the fabric has always haunted me. i do not even think it is fabric. it is something darker, of a far more violent nature. the vision always ends abruptly, never fading, just suddenly cut out. the laughter dies, swiftly, instantly...it does not trail away as its nature dictates. it dies. i wonder. if. i. died, too.
i wonder if it was me at all?
some scientists hypothesise that there is a genetic memory, an everlasting imprint on the DNA code, testament to the travails and experiences of our predecessors, those who came before. we always seem to forget that they very much lived, and very much had lives. i wonder if i remember theirs, or if Buddhism and Hindi are correct and i remember mine? according to the church's oldest doctrines, never faithful to the word of God nor his gracious Heir, i should be condemned for such a question. according to the dogma of many religions, to use the term loosely to encompass all the political and economic institutions evincing a true creed, i am a heretic for the suggestion. and i don't want to consider it.
but. i do.
and i. can't help it.
maybe Taoism is the way...it is the only thing holding me to God...that direction of my faith, yes...and the forbidden book the last temptation of the christ...how strange i can only believe when led by heretics...purported pagans...supposed savages...but it is not right, it does not reconcile, when i see the garden. i hear my father's voice, and it is the voice of no man i know...speaking in a language i know not but understand well...
how
is
this
how
could
this
be?
why?
and i sleep, because it is all i can do...because i have been here before, made these same decisions already, and now the path is mine to choose. only...what if i make the same series of mistakes, of faults, of wrong paths, as before? condemned to repeat this endless cycle? life twice? i can only hope that this time, this repeat, i will get it right.
lord give me now the strength to do what is in thine will, only give me the choice...this is my sole request, give me the choice to follow mine own heart...even should it lead to another repeat...another layer of memories to sift through, deciding which to keep and call mine and which to discard as imaginative meanderings...even should it lead to another repeat...
have you ever had that moment? that stop--eyelids flutter, swiftly unsure, holding pace to the images rolling through the mind's eye--and it is another time, another place, another you even, and it is completely different and wrong yet so perfect a fit because it is--it was--once your life, this. this haunting image. this tragic vision of beauty or horror, sweet jovialty or bitter betrayal...the winding garden path, laughter and ribbons, spring in france--but not a garden of kings, no, never, that is beyond the realm of imagination...and you awaken, and it is nothing...stop--breath catches, forced aside, its place usurped by scenes of something inexplicable...and here it is, the thing which has traced a path through your life, seen behind closed eyelids every night, seen in dark corners when the mind wanders...falling silk almost, sweet velvet to the touch, uncertain texture, unknown origin...even hints of what it might be are simple conjectures made by an ailing mind, a desperate mind...because it is your past, once it was your present, and the fabric tumbled before me like liquid, fluid ebon quicksilver that pooled at my fingertips, flowing over and through, dancing to the vibrance of my laughter. this is a completely different memory than the garden. this is a completely different memory than when i stopped allie before she lashed out. this is completely different than the night of my childrens' death. this is completely different than the night of my escape.
who am i?
am i just raving, confusion and imagination marring impressions of my own life? subtle plotlines adopted into my own memory from pages of text read and forgotten long ago? backgrounds in epic films i have no memory of seeing? or is it something more, something beyond figmentary illusion? fragmentary delusion? i don't know.
some of these memories, dreams, whatever they may be
are far more real than anything of my own life.
the fabric has always haunted me. i do not even think it is fabric. it is something darker, of a far more violent nature. the vision always ends abruptly, never fading, just suddenly cut out. the laughter dies, swiftly, instantly...it does not trail away as its nature dictates. it dies. i wonder. if. i. died, too.
i wonder if it was me at all?
some scientists hypothesise that there is a genetic memory, an everlasting imprint on the DNA code, testament to the travails and experiences of our predecessors, those who came before. we always seem to forget that they very much lived, and very much had lives. i wonder if i remember theirs, or if Buddhism and Hindi are correct and i remember mine? according to the church's oldest doctrines, never faithful to the word of God nor his gracious Heir, i should be condemned for such a question. according to the dogma of many religions, to use the term loosely to encompass all the political and economic institutions evincing a true creed, i am a heretic for the suggestion. and i don't want to consider it.
but. i do.
and i. can't help it.
maybe Taoism is the way...it is the only thing holding me to God...that direction of my faith, yes...and the forbidden book the last temptation of the christ...how strange i can only believe when led by heretics...purported pagans...supposed savages...but it is not right, it does not reconcile, when i see the garden. i hear my father's voice, and it is the voice of no man i know...speaking in a language i know not but understand well...
how
is
this
how
could
this
be?
why?
and i sleep, because it is all i can do...because i have been here before, made these same decisions already, and now the path is mine to choose. only...what if i make the same series of mistakes, of faults, of wrong paths, as before? condemned to repeat this endless cycle? life twice? i can only hope that this time, this repeat, i will get it right.
lord give me now the strength to do what is in thine will, only give me the choice...this is my sole request, give me the choice to follow mine own heart...even should it lead to another repeat...another layer of memories to sift through, deciding which to keep and call mine and which to discard as imaginative meanderings...even should it lead to another repeat...