Boxes

In the back of my mind there are a bunch of boxes. Beat up and dusty they sit in the corner out of the path of any direct light. Most of them hold nothing but air, the memories they once held now scattered to the winds in a million particles of dust fine glass. Corroded by the years and lack of attention they faded into nothingness without even a whisper to herald their passing. Some are full to the brim with the shining past, bits of happiness and comfort snatched here and there and filed away to peruse at a later date. Flickering lights of conversation long neglected that still hold out hope that one day I will open them up and see what they hold. A few, hidden at the very bottom of the pile, are dark and forbid careless tampering. Locked tight to the world they contain those things I have seen and lived and survived that lurk at the edges of my mind and make up the glue that holds this otherwise fragile and gossamer child together at the seams.

Rarely do I venture there, and bring forth one of those boxes. Rarely do I linger in the past where they live, wallowing in the mud of who I was, and who they were, and the choices we both made. I hardly even see them anymore hidden in the dusty mire where they have lain for so long, long ago cast from conscious thought to take up residence in nightmares and terror. These are the moments I would rather forget but cannot, jagged pieces of glass in my mind that could rend and tear if I spent too much time wallowing in their presence. Yet I know, in my heart, that these same bits of my past with such power to devastate me also fuel my strength and that to lock them away forever cheapens the horror and terror I felt when I was trapped in the moment. The tiny scrapes and cuts they cause allow the poison that could easily consume me to bleed from my veins.

I have a great deal of affection for those darker places in my mind, those corners lost deep in shadow where fear and hatred and misery lurk in patient silence, waiting for the opportunity to pounce. Most people shy away from the very edges of their humanity, never seeking to know what lies buried beneath that heap of lies we learn to tell ourselves in an effort to hide all that weakness from the prying eyes of others. In the pool of my own sweat and tears mingled with the blood of my pride and the dust at my feet I can see forever reflected back at me. These moments make me feel not less, but more and stronger each time I pull myself from the ashes of the fire to stand reborn and stretch my wings to the glory of their new span. It is only when held up in contrast to these moments of misery that I can witness the real value of the light and comfort that floods my life on a day to day basis. It’s only by carefully unlocking those boxes and rifling through their contents that I can achieve greater understanding. What I’ve done is such a huge part of who I am.

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“That one” she whispered, and he reached for one hidden back in the shadows of the already dim room. “No not that one, the one beside it” her voice got quieter as his hands neared the source of her anticipation. Wrapping it carefully in his hands he cradled it out of its place in the dusty past and lowered it carefully to the floor between them. She could barely look at it, knowing what it held, and tears started to creep down her cheeks, leaving tracks in the dust that had settled there in her search to unearth this long hidden piece of her past. With trembling hands she lifted the chain from around her neck and the key that dangled on the end danced in the small light offered by the one small lamp as she dropped it into his outstretched palm.

The other side of the glass

They can’t see me. They’ve never been able to see me where I sit on this side of the looking glass, so close to their reality I can reach out and brush it with my fingertips if I tried. I wont, it just leaves me lost and bewildered in the wake of confusion that rushes swiftly through my mind as I try to decipher a world that assaults every sense I have. I can walk beside them and what they see is a warped reflection of the truth, cast in the image they desire to perceive, but never do they open their eyes and see the extent of the fiction they have created. Heaped with a burden of expectations I always seem to fall behind, losing my companions to the crowd that surges around us and defines the edges between my world and theirs. Unable to keep up with the flow of socializing it’s easier to just fade away.

I’ve spent most of my life creeping around the edges. I’m a social voyeur living vicariously through those who do it with such ease. It fascinates me, the way people interact, and I view life like one big sociology study. Sitting quietly in the background taking mental notes on what people are saying and the way they are acting, no one would even notice I’m there unless I stood up to speak and although I have a lot to say I’m rarely sure how to say it.

I feel myself retreating, looking for the way out, disconnecting from their side of the veil a little more each day. The desire to meet them on their terms is an ebbing tide that shows no signs of returning. My pride insists on acceptance and there are only a few who can see past the smoke and mirrors to recognize the value of the real person that hides inside. Those who can respect me for my differences I’ll meet halfway, for their differences deserve to be respected in turn. Those who would continue to heap futile expectations on me should know that they heap them on a husk of what was once there to be burdened.

I still want that connection. It’s the biggest dichotomy in my life. My need to be left alone and my need to connect with the world at large tug me in opposite directions some times when I want to reach out and touch someone nearby. I’m lucky, now, that I have someone who chooses to exist beside me, grant me that human touch I desire so badly, to do it on my terms and see it for what its worth, to appreciate the things I have to offer. I’m lucky to have met someone whose needs run so parallel and yet opposite to my own that we find strength and satiation in the flash floods that consume us. Someone who can see the reality Through Glass.

The "cure" for my "problem"

I’m baffled by the concepts of normal, and typical, and common sense that isn’t common and doesn’t often make any sense at all. I don’t understand the world’s propensity towards dishonesty and untruth. “Honest to a fault” is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard. Whose fault are we talking about here and why does the truth need to be anyone’s fault at all? Why can’t the truth just be what it is? I spend my life asking these questions, and haven’t found an answer yet.

The only way to achieve balance in my life is by being honest with myself and the people around me about who I am and what I need. I tried bluffing, I tried faking it, I tried pretending I was just like the rest of them. I tried and failed, but I tried and succeeded with surprising frequency as well, only to return home still overwhelmed and miserable in the long run, drug down by the pressures of the role I was playing day after day after day. I tried to be someone I wasn’t for the sake of the mass majority that they could continue to be comfortable in their idea of what was right and normal and the best thing for everybody, but the truth still sang beneath the surface until my ears rang with its echo and my head pounded to its rhythm. The inside of my head was a raging storm of confusion as I tried to make my needs meet the standards of a world that thought I was getting by just fine. Interesting that now, as I have reached calm and balance, they think there is something wrong with me that needs to be remedied. I’ve found the cure, and they are still confused about the problem.

The only disabling thing I suffer from is judgment, the rest of my life is calm and peaceful and I’m quite content with what I have. That’s more than can be said for most people out there trying to “make it in the real world”. If I sought a cure for who I am, the things that form my personality, what would be left? What would it matter if I could enjoy having more friends if all of the things my real friends love about me were lost in the process? I have spent 30 years in self evaluation to get myself to a point where I have all the things I need to make me happy and content in my day to day life and what would be the point in throwing all of that away in order to have things I don’t really want in the first place. Really, they ought to stop trying to cure me, and start trying to accept me. It’s much more within their realm of influence.

Perception

Some will seek the tangles in the depths, only to be trapped and lost in a cage of their own interpretations. They close the doors to their own minds, slamming them shut one after another in an attempt to hold together their fragile and shattering sense of self. The cracks that mar the surface ebb land flow like the tides, for sometimes these feeble attempts at enlightenment form mud that seeps into the cracks and fills them. But the reality of truth flows past these shallow dams, they loosen the bits of debris that tries to lock itself into feeble wisdom.

If only these eyes could see, if only the walls that contain this all could be torn down one brick at a time. If only progression could force time back in its wheel, then the voices of things once uttered in distress could be trampled under the heavy tread of common sense. But alas, time marches on and the voices that once echoed so soundlessly from wall to wall, fade in the distance between then and now. Who remembers the whispered tales so forgotten in their own past they cannot see the light of the present shining bright into their imagination, beckoning and tempting of things that could lead the soul to peace and the mind to clarity?

Feeble winds and feeble tales spread slow and tend to whimper with dying breaths, for without progress the wings could not unfurl, and the butterfly would never soar, forever doomed to the path of the earth, chained by the bonds of altered evolution. Stagnancies breeds disease, and this disease that burns fierce along the pillars of the bridges casts its shadows long across the path that leads onward, forward, one step at a time.

The arms of comrades fallen by the wayside, point the way through the mires that try to grasp and claw, draw them into its heart where it feeds on those who call themselves the truth. Gaping rents in the understanding of those too blinded by base achievement to grasp the difficulties within their twisted hands. Psychic vampires who sneak unwary through the triumphs of others, seeking to pick and prod at the delicate fibers that hold the sleeping eyes of dreamers as they wander from room to room.

My spirit sings at the cusp of the deepest pit, obsidian darkness and an echo that fans out forever, like a stone dropped from far too high to ever pierce the delicate skin of the oceans that abound. Laughter fills the emptiness of the blackened rooms behind the closed doors. For those without eyes to see, or bridges to traverse the severity of the landscape, shall trip and stumble to the knees of a child when faced with the certainty of their own mistakes. Someday the slap shall send them reeling, and the crystal palaces built so carefully, brick after brick, in careful progression, will shatter and fall before the eyes of the disbelieving.

Progression relies on the imperfections of humanity, for with nothing to improve on how could we progress. And yet there will always be some who can refuse to see even the plainest of colors as they pass before their eyes. Some who will always see the calming blue that descends from above as the crimson red that surrounds their defenses. My song mourns these lost souls, who have forgotten how to forgive themselves all transgressions that they might learn and grow and seek the metamorphosis that allows them to soar.

Indigo blood sinks deep into the soil that holds captured the feet of those who wander too far down the path of self righteousness, those who would dare scratch insults in the dust in vain attempts to be granted company in the face of their own denied misery. Grant them succor, and their claws rend and tear at the pages that hold the destiny of truth before their very sight. Grant them solace and they cry foul and dismay, that one would dare offer sanctuary in the depths of their own endless drive towards totality.

Let the angels be warned, that the demons that hide within the hearts of those too important to care for the opinions of others exist in the closets and under the beds. Intolerance is the nightmare that lurks in the shadows and causes fear in the night. Each time the evening descends, another voice fades from the echoes, another is added to the chaos, another twists itself into knots with its own failed logic. In all cases, at the end of all tales, reality and truth will prevail, for that is the path of progression, and there is no denying that.