We
measure so often the sorest complications, at times uncomfortable with peace;
for the essence is surprising, in this Protestant setting, where work is deemed
as supreme and life is deemed as troublesome, even dark and gloomy. We appear
as bolted to the seams, to struggle as unbolted, to register this sense of
nervousness. We see it as natural, even philosophical, to blend it with
metaphysics: that sudden cry, to languish in energy, rubbing a vase for a
jinni. “It shouldn’t be so difficult”; to live this life, neither sheltered nor
unsheltered—skating mystic terrains; but deep the glory of rain, comes the
scars of breath, to arrive at a space worthy of allegiance. It’s the comfort of
womblike cocoons; that as spiritual security, wrecked at junctures, reamed with
the chaos of havoc: to kneel through turmoil, to hear that sullen wail, to feel
this inner person. Lights grow dim; where we lose our centers, stumbling to
find that infinite space. Something dies in cycles, where the two are courting
a stranger weekly—where the essence remains familiar. Oh when the essence is
shifted, and the night prevails, that life is riddled with sorrow; albeit, we
wrestle melancholy, to sift for joys, to become sentimental; where such is easy
to become, for we witness such heartache—whereby, a gentle gesture registers a
misty response. “It couldn’t be real”; this mystery of woes, to channel so
deeply, to become so esoteric: to say for little, to read but fragments, that
closer to have said but a smidgen; whereat, is frustration—to have felt so
deeply—this thing, which remains inexplicable. It becomes a test: to have said
it all, while exhibiting obscurities, fashioned to some degree, by that that
has been written.
It’s
not surprising that we cleave to joys—stationed in a paradox, where some things
are oxymoronic, and other things appear as bias. We search for clarity, a type
of leaning, where our dreams are favored, and our tears are treasures;
otherwise, we become defensive, standing at an impasse, eager for a yellow
light; where this is mutuality, that type of nothingness, whereby, we depart in uneasiness. We’ve stated this
sense of pain; but what of bliss, disguised as fleetingness, where pain appears
as a continuum. It appears that an interruption denotes a rift; so for pain to
ceased in honor of joys, shows a pattern; wherefore, we long for joyful
moments, as a recognition that the pain has been interrupted; but so often the
pain is more dominate than the joys—therefore, we take for granted those
moments in which we relish in moments of bliss; nevertheless, it is the joys of
life—which draw forth that age of matrimony. It is too the joys that usher our
recognition of reaching; that too
close feeling of there is other than what I feel at a given moment; thus, we
mingle, read, study, work, and so many other engagements that minister to a
joyous atmosphere; nevertheless, we are not shy concerning the human condition;
we realize that discomfort is a reality that probes human consciousness,
revving our resilience.
