you always try to elevate circumstances to a symbolic level,
turn them into metaphors studded with pearls of universal wisdom;
you make the same mistake over and over again:
you gild the all-too-often, you mourn
the tragedy turned grotesque by the breaking news,
you seek meaning in the rant of fools,
you commiserate with the icy despair
of those who cannot love
and pretend they are heartbroken.
sometimes facts are just facts: they are not the truth;
they are the premise from which minds weave reactions and
map the road to follow in response to what is expected of them
not according to their own nature but to the rules of the many,
to the blueprint of the maze they were born into.
but not you; you would die for truth;
you believe it is essential - a gift
worthy of your love for those you cherish - family, friends;
you cannot see that your quest for truth, the constant delving
into the black maggot-filled earth of family secrets
casts the beam of madness over your honest face.
they lie to you; they’ve lied to you before;
it is how they survived your idealism,
it is how they watched your fall without blinking:
they believed you deserved it as a punishment
for not being able to fit in - an isolated case,
outlandish, theatrical. the predictable story of a born loser.
she wishes there was change to look forward to: an unexpected prize or a journey to an unknown destination. something only for her. perhaps a chance to explore, discover, fill her with the red sap of life - a shimmering dragonfly hovering over the swamp of waiting. waiting for what? for the inevitable dull end of the dutiful mother? she is not even sure about her dim feelings for the strangers who were once her children. what good the work she put into raising them, the things she had to give up, her devotion and love? she is nobody to them. they are alien to her. she used to fulfill a function. she was that function to them, no more. they are far away, wrapped up in their struggles, their lives they keep secret from her. what happened to her old dreams? they seem so ridiculous now. she would be embarrassed to admit to such high aspirations even though she accomplished so much. all her past victories are dusty stories nobody would even believe. in a world where old mothers are expected to leave the scene and go to a retirement home, expect visits for christmas, fade away in socially correct silence. regardless of their story of triumph. category is more important than essence. a category hundreds of years old.
the best part of her day is the morning coffee with a fresh pastry from the village bakery. she indulges even though she is obese. lunch is good too, with a glass of wine; the afternoon tea with dainty sandwiches and biscuits; more sweets to enjoy in the evening while watching a film. it feels good to be fed, at least by mouth; it soothes her. it is the only joy she can rely on.
sometimes she cries. the old woman she sees in the mirror - who is she? perhaps she could run away from her. that shapeless heavy body. the lines dragging down the corners of her mouth. the puffy eyelids framing her eyes. there is nowhere to go and hide from those mournful eyes. she is so tired. november’s sleepless nights sweep the moon’s face with indigo clouds; owls shriek in the nearby forest. memories are thuds and fireworks on a distant horizon. she lies under the cold bedcovers; sometimes she dreams she is young and beautiful again. sometimes she dreams she can fly over her world and leave it behind. she never dreams she is loved.
there is a new harmony - heavenly, abstract, immaterial presence,
glimpse of a new order elevating dissonance,
translucent, transparent, weightless bodies,
gravity defying scaffold of light beams in the heart of waiting;
imagine music you can see, colours you can wrap around your trembling fingers,
a fragrant breeze healing all wounds, bringing ghosts to life.
do not oppose the change: be permeable to the point of no resistance,
let this soft wavering feeling flow through you; it is the shimmering river of hope;
you can now look back and see your past with new eyes:
the broken cup was full of light.