As I look back on the pages of my life,
and reminisce over the events that forged me into who I am today,
I am filled with sweet melancholy..
a bittersweetness that leaves me in a familiar yet distant place.
The tear-laced memories,
the distant sounds of laughter..
the warmth of gentle smiles..
all come together to form this compendium I now hold in my hands.
At times it feels so light..
and I wonder:
what have I done with my days?
these moments that are so fleeting..
what purpose have I fulfilled?
what lives have I touched..?
Other times I can barely hold it up
from the dense weight of its contents.
The lessons are what I try to carry with me;
though at times the weight seems daunting,
The pages of our lives don’t always turn so easily,
they sometimes prevent us from moving forward.
The past can be the most stubborn of barriers;
Pages like molten lava that solidify into obsidian
with its sharp edges and conchoidal fractures.
We try to climb over them,
tearing our flesh in the process
yet to no avail.
Like a cinder block tied to our feet
as we attempt to swim to shore;
it holds us stagnating;
and we know it is only a matter of time
before it pulls us down,
drowning into darkness.
And so we are left with no alternative —
but to burn those pages,
and blow the ashes into the wind.
Within this solitude, I have grown in ways I never knew possible. I have delved deeper into the caverns of each chamber of this sacred abode we call the Heart, and discovered there is no end.. It is a perpetually incessant journey.
I continue to swim, propelled through this bloodstream, ~ this heart’s dream.. my tears becoming one with the ocean within the vessel that carries me forth.
Guided by a gentle hand, the inward immersion continues.. It is dark.. warm.. it envelopes me. I cannot see .. rather I feel, moving by the sight of faith.
There is safety in this sanctuary, the guiding hand a cord, the darkness a soothing, protective womb.
I inhale deeply — as I hear the voice whisper: everything is allegory pain is a sculptor (it keeps us upright) love is a painter (his brush divinely guided) lust is a cello… (but what good is an instrument without a song to sing?)
and I am ecstatically transported to Tagore:
“I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument
while the song I came to sing remains unsung.”
I exhale cathartically — Releasing..
It seems an eternity between the inhale ~ and the exhale.. a lifetime between each breath.