They have put crude tools in front of me,
and asked me to make something of myself.

And as I stare at them in wonder,
I am stuck by the horror
that they are all thriving,
happy and beautiful.
That by some turn of the wrench,
or by dint of the hammer,
they have become new and improved?
How is it they expect me to know
what they have done, and why
would I want to do it?
But they all say I am overreacting,
that I am too sensitive.
All the same, I am myself.

But there is something in me that
knows what I must do, with
what instrument, and I am
ashamed that I have not done it sooner.

Seeing the rocks among the waves,
the dark angry shapes framed by foamy white,
I raised the anchor, and detached from
the world, and let the greater forces
guide me to safety.

Even so, that which drifts is not free.
By current, tide, and wind
the boat is barred and imprisoned.
Though rocked, tossed, and thrown
I remained unmoved.

Days and days upon the sea starved me
and drained me. Seeing that I was too weak,
and too weary, I detached from my body,
and let the greater forces guide me.

But then there was the rock, the wind, and
the water, waiting for me, wondering what
had become of me, as if I had left their game
too early. They could not understand this
practice of detachment, of leaving the duties
of living. I had said, You do not understand,
for you are but earthly elements. But they
replied, You do not understand, for we
are the greater forces.

I want what I don't want.
I don't want what I want.
I don't want to want at all.
But the wanting is there,
whispering within the walls,
or having a tantrum on the floor,
wailing its lack of something.
I see that other me clearly,
demanding, bleating and begging
for that which is not to be mine now.
It cries for justice, fairness, and rights
but with the same desperate
selfishness that leads to the lack
of justice, fairness and rights.
It is a necessary adversary,
to war with all my days,
and forge who I might be.

There was a calvacade of color,
stretching backward endlessly,
mirrored by all who chose to mirror,
by the flash of a glance,
and the whispers of masks,
by ladder and scale.
All are caught in the whirl
of a chaotic dance,
urged on by every drum
in every heart.

We are all culpable,
heeding every movement
with horror and anticipation,
waiting for the Impact
from the Fall.

I wake to wrap around me some comfort, thin and soiled.
The tighter I cling, the more strained and torn it becomes.
The scanty drink is tainted and the bread, stale.
The darkness and damp are too much for me, and what
eases the shivering cold and wet is what I borrow and steal from heaven.

I have heard it said that heaven gives of these things freely,
that they are gifts and blessings to those that are open, to whom
can receive them without shame.

But I have only seen the cost and consequence of the world,
where payment is due in full.

What is the cost? What is it to suffer? It is to be blind.
It is to be fractured into the Many. It is to be deceived.
What has God withheld from you?
Only what you have withheld from yourself.
What have you stolen from Him?
It has always been yours.

There is no name that applies to me now, for I am not myself.
I am all that I am not. I am naught, and cannot be named.
I have left it, peacefully, without a struggle. Like setting a feather
gently down on grass, I have removed myself. I am no longer a
Self, no longer one insistent discordant voice, but disolved into
Music and Light.
I detach. I become grounded in that deeper space, the All.
Do you call me by name? What name could you use for me?
Disolved into All, I am nameless.

I can't tell you if I'm crazy. I'm not sure.
I will only say
that all the doors are locked from the inside,
that all the unlightened corridors wind back to here,
that all their eyes skin me like razors,
that all their movements are abrasive,
hurried and frantic.
To move with them is to be them,
And to not is to be myself.

As others stare into the peripheral blur,
My one focal point is oblivion to them.

There are hiding places in the crevices,
Where it is cold and quiet, save my own
blood, that flows with angry insects,
that chew their homes into my bones.
I need to rest, for the body is spent,
and to run is but tracing circles.

So in rest, the spasm and strain run their
course. And there in the dark are the voices
of those who have cared about me.
"Please don't" I say. "You're love is wasted
on me."

You are not crazy, they say, You are blind.
For love that is loved cannot be wasted.
To believe you are all alone is the lie of loneliness.
To feel you are going in circles is to think and behave obstinately.
To believe that your own emotions can
declare objective truths is to be deceived.