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You´ll get there…

what’s that real voice i hear inside?
the one sneaking through all the other ones…
You´ll get there

when i am walking down the street, intense, in one of my
mentally deranged arguments with myself,
when i question if i am able to decipher that voice from the rest of the chatter,
i feel the words…
You´ll get there

wondering where that voice of Om went,
the same one that whispered to me many years ago,
getting me started on this journey
with the encouragement…
You´ll get there

and now that i am here,
with my ultimate manifestation at its peak,
i try again to hear it,
to remember how to feel grateful,
because it is too easy just to be grateful, just to say it,
And then suddenly it washes over me…
You´ll get there

and among the voices that recall
the nightmares i used to fear as a child,
bobbing alone in the middle of the endlessness of the ocean
and watching myself from miles up,
how small i was, how insignificant I felt on this earth,
it tells me as i lose my thoughts and spiral into habit…
You´ll get there

staring out at my red clay veranda
the crystal blue skyline of Aveiro in the background
me, here, somehow, at my glass desk, writing,
still searching,
still reminding myself, constantly…
You´ll get there

and then, suddenly, it emcompasses me
takes over all the other noise:
life, and all we do in it,
is not about where we are going
There is not a goal, a result, a destination
life is a process, here
living is the process, now
and just like that
once again
i am no longer striving to get there,
because I am already here

af

trust myself

From now on, i trust myself…

“You are stupid,” they would always say.
“Educate yourself before you open your mouth.”
So i read and asked questions
So i learned and learned and learned

“You think you are so smart,” they would then say.
“What have you ever done? Where have you ever gone?
You are all talk.”
So i left and traveled across countries, lived in the slums
So i started experiencing what life was elsewhere

“You are so righteous,” they would say to me then.
“You think you are better than me? You consume just the same.”
So i purged and purged, let go, released
So i began to live off of other´s garbage, their clothes and leftovers

“You are still a hypocrite,” they then lashed.
“How have you made the world better?”
So i dedicated my life to helping those my culture has destroyed
So i submerged myself in death, deformation, disease and desperation

“You are just angry, now, all of the time,” they condemned.
“Just be more like me. Let go. Take care of yourself.
So i found inner peace
So i learned to live in balance, serenity, agape

“Have you ever made a difference,” they then mocked me with.
“Will you ever make a difference?
Have you accomplished anything?”
So I decided, finally, once and for all, to bury
it all, them all, from my past, from my present, from my future
So now i sit here, in glorious, rich mourning,
grateful i am no longer one of any of them

So now i understand wisdom
So now i ignore the devil´s ignorance
So now i continue on my pilgrimage…

and from now on, i trust myself




af

9 August: This morning…

This morning I woke happy, with a smile on my face.  This morning I woke grateful, for my mind and my body and the life I lead.  This morning I woke wanting to live. 

This morning was a very different morning for me than the mornings of the past nine to ten months.  

Anyone who knows me sees the smiling, optimistic persona.  As my friend James mentioned to me a few weeks back, “Man, every time I see you, you are just so happy.  Always smiling.” “I am a great actor,” I would usually reply, and he would never believe me. I try my hardest to keep up an image in public, an image people expect of me.  I have been taught this since my earliest days. Be a man, not a victim. And I have learned well to cope, to smile-and-nod, to “be what is expected of me”. And a big part of that coping involved honing my skills of perception, both personal and public.  In this reality, in this society, especially for a middle-aged man, no one really cares about my mental well-being.  People care most about their perception of it. 

When a person is an easy target, they are also easily disposable, and therefore easily ignored.  And when a person is alone in a society of billions, it is all too easy to believe in personal worthlessness.  Stop feeling sorry for yourself is one of the usual responses whenever I have dared to crawl out from this hole to be vulnerable.  People are cruel, intentional or not. And if I am not put down for daring to whisper my truth, then I am met with a cliche. You should meditate.  You shouldn´t focus so much on the bad, but be happy. Don´t think so negatively all the time. The list of this ridiculous dialogue is endless.  It is the reason no one ever knew that every single night for the past nine to ten months, I have gone to sleep wishing on that magical star that I would not wake in the morning. And it is the reason I would sink deeper into my depression every morning for the past nine to ten months when I did wake.  

The last time I woke up truly happy and hopeful was a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving.  I was living with who I thought was going to be my future, a strong, talented, beautiful woman and her angelic 1 yr-old son.  That last morning, I woke around 5:30a to the sound of crying, and I thought, this is what I have always dreamed of my life being.  I kissed my love gently, whispered for her to go back to sleep, and I got out of bed, walked into his room and held him, feeling him wrap his arms around my neck, squeezing me in comfort, his tears being soaked up by the bare skin of my shoulder.  It was how I had been waking most mornings for the weeks preceding.  Those were the happiest mornings of my life, and I found myself looking forward to going to sleep just so I could wake and experience them, finally.  

But this morning, after having a bit of a cold for the past few days, after talking with my body and my mind, after trusting in the strength of the trinity that creates me, i woke healthy, strong, well-rested, breathing the air of the Atlantic ocean, and the first words that came to my still unconscious mind were, thank you body, thank you mind, i am truly grateful for you.

Over the next few weeks, I will be in a state of mourning.  What I realized very recently is that my resolve has disconnected me from empathizing with myself, and the necessity of survival and my determination to survive has weakened me.  This has become my reality because, although I have buried and hid from and moved past all of the pain and betrayals of my past, I have allowed them to stay scattered all around me, all around my spirit, rotting as bodies do in the sun, decomposing but never buried.  “Moving on” replaced the acceptance of loss, and “the pursuit of happiness” has prevented me from bathing in the rich sadness of mourning and letting go.  Because, no matter how far I have come or or how far I was going, regardless of how many mountains I climbed and countries I walked across, I was and am still tethered to my past self by these moldy, rotting lines of reluctance.

But this morning, I woke up grateful in the trust I placed in myself many years ago when I faced my family, alone, knowing that my life would be changed, permanently, in the forever years of living that I have ahead of me. 

To mourn properly means to not make an enemy of my past and of my depression, but to be honest with it in order to remove its taboo over my existence. And as a result, this morning I woke up grateful because of this simple acceptance.

pointless game

anger?
why am i so angry?
because someone has to be.

does anyone have anything new to say
that
i might find remotely interesting, original?
i might actually learn anything from?

the sun seems to burn my peripheral more so
these days
my body is burnt out
a hundred days of fire

no matter where I go
there are just brains walking in their vats
living aimlessly and cluelessly
protecting their selves with self love
sharing none with those who need it
intentionally ignorant to the fog
of pain they waddle through daily
hourly
minutely
secondly
they look at me, side eyed, scared
stare like i am a monster
preach peace
claim love as their highest guide
yet reject, cancel, hate, segregate
banish
anyone who believes otherwise
hiding in their ivory towers
cast off with scornful judgment
anyone who challenges the bubble

Siddhartha was right
when he sat and smiled
and laughed at the comical apparition of commerce
at those who took advantage of him
it is all just a game, he knew
and most of the world plays
mistaking their neverending exercises in absurdity
for actual reality
perpetually
with pride and honor
for the sole purpose of self-adulation

when i walk
all i witness are
not players but
wandering, short-circuited, short-sighted creatures
drugged, raped, lying, buying and voting for more
at what point does the master
bore themselves from their aggression
towards the mindless, the hopeless, the conscious dead?
it is all just a game, i know
but i do not want to win this game
as so many others give their lives to do
i do not even want to play
as unavoidable as it is

anger?
why am i so angry?
because someone has to be.



af

the era of masks

I used to ask if there was a place for dreamers in this world,
if a literal poet can survive,
if anyone really cares and suffers as a result anymore?

Now i ask…
Has the era of the romantics really come to an end?
I sit on the front porch watching the rain,
live oaks drinking it all in before the summer droughts.
In the background, people coming and going coming and going.
We have figured out the game, hacked it
and now we are bored
coming and going.
Everyone has seen behind the curtain now
and so we have stopped believing in magic.

Those who claim happiness are delusional.
It is an ideal as dangerous as depression.
Happiness ignores the sad pain that wraps her arms around this world,
prevents us from feeling actual reality,
ignores the mix of hunger pangs, nausea, and marshmallows
all someone caught in the throat.

My life is not a movie, or a book, or a work of art.
My life is minutes through air and words on a page.
No one is going to see me, nor should.
No one is going to read this, nor should,
yet i have been conditioned since birth to be on display.
They forced my skin to be thick,
but the skin never heals the branding.
My scars are forever.

Allow me to hide in here, please.
With you, give me a home for this moment.
The world hurts too much.
Noise keeps coming from all sides and i talk and talk and talk
because it is the only way for me to not hear it all, feel it all.
I blast metal and chaos into my ears, as loud as I can,
trying to drown it all out,
the pain and the rhetoric and the righteousness.

Some of us just feel too much.
Some of us feel everything,
and are surrounded by suffering and hopelessness
and this false myth of happiness everyone is hopelessly suffering for.
I believed it all was going to change,
but the era of masks has outlasted the era of the romantic,
and us few empaths scattered among the masses of your society
are helpless against your onslaught;
We are alone throughout the night
hearing, listening to the weeping sobs seeping from our earth
feeling, like buried splinters, each and every out of tune frequency
knowing how to give what is needed
knowing only how to give, and never to receive.

We are a one way door with endless hands waiting to grab what they can from us…

We few bear the burden of the denial of those delusionally happy…

I understand that all of these sentiments might simply be
a passing feeling, a storm to weather,
but it really does seem we all work from home now
(The Era of Practicality)
and we are proud to be individuals
(The Death of Romanticism)
as i watch the sun rise behind the rain,
dreaming, absorbing, crying,
surrounded by walls of mirrors,
wondering too much, gripped to deeply,
typing away in the grey sadness that is “America”.




af

inconvenient angel

i allow myself only so much dreaming 
of the desires and freedoms i have sought.
i hold onto the night, the right balance 
of my solitude and your embrace i have wanted

it is easy for me to jump
difficult for me to stick my landing
easy to catch 
hard to hold

but just because i slam the brakes 
does not mean i wish to change my journey
just because i hold you at arm’s length
does not mean I am pushing you away

i allow myself only so much wandering,
needing to remember my personal pilgrimage;
to experience it as I have wanted to live it
stubbornly
as i have worked so hard to get 
exactly
to this point in the path

my foundation is solid
however
you are
you were
you could have been
a very inconvenient angel;
are were could have been
the path i have been following all along

af

she has a walk

She has a walk…
and she leaves a trail of destruction with it.

She has a walk…
straight spine, slowly, deliberate
and when she passes me
(and she always stares straight ahead, 
and always passes me)
i feel like a curtain torn off a wall 
by an erratic wind,
holding on best i can.

She has a walk…
she leaves here, reality, instantly,
whether it be as a reaction to a word
or just simply an overflow of thought in her head,
coldness overtakes her, 
helplessly or not.
Yet i understand her games and tricks so well
and cannot help but to want to guide her
as she guides her son
as they both guide me;
to protect her aimless ruthlessness,
because i see all of the misguided beauty and soul
she has poured into the chaos her walk sows.

She has a walk…
an arrogant runway intellectual glide, 
which makes me resent her all the more
for all the 
questions that flood me 
depths i am diving
calming i am experiencing
understanding fermenting in me
confidence, finally, once again growing.
In her walk, she avoids looking at me 
because she knows 
i see inside of her 
and she fears that 
letting go means giving up
because she knows 
i am fascinated by the engorged webs 
she has left throughout her journey
because she knows
i, too, have webs in my wake
just like hers
and because she knows,
as she hunts me,
as she repeatedly sinks her fangs into me,
i am curious as to why her strikes on me heal so fast

She has a walk…
and i catch her looking back sometimes
with heavy shameful loneliness
remorsefully wondering why 
her naivety and pure intentions 
has caused so much chaos, so many casualties.
She disappears into her own world in an instant,
no anticipating when she will go,
or when she will return
and see me still here, wounds closing,
waiting 
knowing 
my patience is stubborn 
my years have given my heartbreak stamina
and i find her incredibly amusing;
a modern millie in the elevator going up the rabbit hole.

She has a walk…
and she leaves a trail of destruction with it

af
(written 9 nov)

keep dreaming

I am a dead man, with ghosts, everyday, passing through me, reminding me: Keep Dreaming.  I watch an imaginary screen exposing me to two-dimensional love, filling me with hope of the tragedy I long ago stopped believing in…Keep Dreaming. Read the rest of this entry »

practice

Chicken & the egg
and the art of denial
the abyss is hollow
consuming shallow
stay away…they say they say
cry out to the heavens instead
avoid the darkness  Read the rest of this entry »

can you?

Your tattoos mean nothing
       they are a moment of confidence within a lifetime
       of conformity.  But can you grow old as an outlaw?

Your piercings are decoration
       they do not imply to me a cultural rebellion
       which conveys real strength. Can you be more than a symbol?

Your anarchy is a painting
       it is a fashion of fictitious individualistic fissure;
       a facade to hide behind.  Can you protect the uncool?

Your righteousness is hollywood
       it is the plague of weakness which feeds the sins
       of ego. Can you stand alone for what is truly right?

I have lived long enough now on both sides of the curtain
to understand the difference between the tough and the strong
                                                                  the lustful and the passionate
                                                                  the fabricators and the artists
                                                                  the beautiful and the attractive
                                                                  the pin-up and the muse
                                                                  the rebel and the individual

Your masks are repulsive
       they hide the rare gem of life you have been gifted with
       Can you truly expose yourself?

 

 

af