Echoes

Freely in Him I was told that misery brought about creativity; only I knew how dried the ink of my mind became when my heart was drowning in melancholia. I was told that happiness brought about direction; only I knew how forgetful I became when in bliss, how stagnant it is when I held joy in my palm. I am understanding me to understand the world. It was never about misery or joy; it was about connection, being one with creation. Happiness never brought about direction; it was direction, then happiness, and worldly wisdom handed misery. Oh, what do I know? What could anyone possibly know to live on the certainty of someone else's idea of life, to mirror the world through the lens of history? I have denounced the party of such living and have chosen solely to live freely. — Myra

The Irony Everything was ending; it was all so monotonous. It gets stuck and gets stuck. Everything was closing up: the hearts, shops, way of life, expressions, truths, the eyes. They were so blind; they saw nothing. They perceived nothing; they were drunken— drunken by their own breath, by a worthless system. They weren't growing up; they were growing rotten, their souls decaying— decaying and being eaten alive. Yet, they proclaimed they were living as they clicked those glasses, spewed those words, made those contacts. So I, a being no less different, sought out mystery. Day and night, it became my feast, for without it, I was one of the great majority—a propaganda. How adamant a heart, how rigid a mind, how ironic a tale! I feasted on mystery because I seek connection. I sought real connection, but I knew not where to look. I searched rightly but looked wrongly. All this while, the one that would never end, that would offer endless adventure to my wicked heart— who could have thought? Who could have known that all I spent my life searching was already my own, only waiting to behold? — Myra

This life of prophets and preachers, I wonder where the sinners and listeners lie. This fleeting life that passes in a whim, I've ponder what meaning it could possibly hold. It is like searching for water in a basket; if one could find a drop in it, perhaps it is all the answers we need. — Myra

I gaze into every mirror in the world, they reflected nothing but my fears. — Myra

At what point it was, I vaguely recall, my desires, which were met with enormous glee, suddenly were subdued by something else. And though I still desire things, I mean, is there a man who could be completely detached, to not at least have any desire, even as small as a wish to simply watch a bird take flight? I have found none; every one of mine is somewhat met with uncertainty. The thought of it sometimes scares me. I wonder how I'd ended up like this. When I was younger, I wondered what was wrong with all the adults. Now, from where I stand, what a sight it is that I have this very little wish—a child does not nod their head at me in the same pity I had done. But then again, it matters so little. For instance, when I am happy, I suddenly have the belief that I have never been sad before, that it couldn't have been possible. I've come to understand that we all have very little storage; everything becomes vague with every passing second. The problem I've concluded is that we forget. That was what was wrong with the adults: they forget the promises they made to themselves to somehow be the change they wish to see. They forget, and even when remembered, are too lazy or too tired to put it into action. It's like the weight of the years suddenly weighs on their shoulders, and they see no need to make things right. Or they do end up concluding that since the experiences of the past brought them such awareness, perhaps it isn't at all bad. Perhaps it is the right thing. For which is the case, I don't know exactly. ~An excerpt taken from thin air — Myra

What, then, is wisdom, if not the amount of knowledge one can grasp? Are we then not just foolish in the sight of things yet to be learned? Would we ever learn enough to stop learning?

Her Little World Unraveling is the way of life. I spend most of my time trying to find meaning; take down some notes, learn a new idiom. Chocolates, books, watching stars, evening walks— the good thing about living is getting to do the little things we love, the little uncounted minutes that count. Pain is the way we easily connect. It was never about how big the problem was or how hard you felt it. It was about getting up. I told myself I'll never lose to depression; I would heal and heal the little world around me. Dead wall clock, same old routine, the counted days that never count. Some days I still wake up at four a.m. and feel completely detached from the world— muffled cries, deleted accounts, headaches, blocks, seeing myself sleepwalking towards an early grave. The momentary moment of giving to darkness, I realized it was more than finding the light at the end of the tunnel; it was about seeing what's inside, it was about lighting a lamp within the tunnel. Picnic sitting, observations, moments with good people— real good people that bring a bundle of magic to you. These hands that hold, these eyes that swell with emotions. I realized I never admired chaos. I only ever wanted peace, unfathomable peace. Life slowly choked the poet I never was out of me. Some days I see it as a blessing, other days a curse, but most days, an escape. — Myra

#commentary I think, I've never found a poem I loved this much.

A Busy Man This crowded life of God's good giving No man has relished more than I; I've been so goldarned busy living I've never had the time to die. So busy fishing, hunting, roving, Up on my toes and fighting fit; So busy singing, laughing, loving, I've never had the time to quit. I've never been one for thinking I've always been the action guy; I've done my share of feasting, drinking, And lots of wenching on the sly. What all the blasted cosmic show meant, I've never tried to understand; I've always lived just for the moment, And done the thing that came to hand. And now I'll toddle to the garden And light a good old Henry Clay. I'm ninety odd, so Lord, please pardon My frequent lapses by the way. I'm getting tired; the sunset lingers; The evening star serenes the sky; The damn cigar burns to my fingers . . . I guess . . . I'll take . . . time off . . . to die. - Robert William service

On a full moon night by the window, I looked into the void and realized the only thing that was ever real about this existence was that I existed in it. — Myra

How ironic, I devoted so much time to hurting my heart in an attempt to heal it. #Random — Myra

My nostrils are familiar with a scent—a scent that makes me remember there's something I've forgotten. It urges me to recall, recall, almost with a convictive defiance. Regaining the memory is always ever an almost, as I cling on to the scent. An almost. Days, months, years will go by, and this fragrance will return, still ever an almost. I plug at my hair, into my head a thought that kills, always ever an almost, as though this scent is there to reflect my life, which is a perfect depiction of an almost. — Myra

There's a fine line between a person who is aware of their limited knowledge and is open about it... And a person who constantly claims ignorance on matters they're fully aware of even in moments when their knowledge is needed.. T—Random

Language is an approximation. A spell we cast in an attempt to enslave a tiny piece of life. A piece of bait we use to trap inside of an idea. Stuck inside a paradox, as writers we free a part of their mind by creating cosmic links from the Goddess of Chaos. But with each subsequent link we add in our forge, we bend our own mind that much more, to the point where the man who'd dare claim perfect objectivity would be the first to lose all hope of being one with life itself. — Lee

Whatever the wise say about wisdom being the source of melancholy, I believe very little of it. There's no guarantee that I, or your sadness, will amount to anything but mere sadness. We know these things not because the knowledge of it suddenly fell from the sky, but because we've been there; mostly, we failed at it. When people begin giving advice to their failed pasts and failed selves, the world applauds them and crowns them wise, a genius. These people, however when they continue to fail, they have more experience, and as such, they have more reason to sound wise. But their acquired wisdom never spares them from more failure; if observed closely, it sometimes seems as though it opens the door to more mistakes. #Random

To die is daunting to live is unbearable despite the inevitability of death we still choose to live in today's horror trying to escape the greatest horror Though, to live is not a one-time death. Still, we choose to live in the illusion that we'll find an escape and in a frenzy hope that life will suddenly become bearable. we're unconsciously used to this unbearable existence, no matter what, pilling up our loads, painting pain as lessons, and fear as valleys, to delude ourselves from the real fact of life — Myon

Ma, they tell me not to think. They tell me to dump all the memories of you in the far end of my heart. They tell me you weren't all I thought. They say you're everything evil under the face of the earth. Ma, I do not know how to make them understand that you're what I see when my head meets the pillow, when my knees hit the floor, when I think about all things family and all things growing up. I have not the courage nor will to tell them that a place without you feels like living in a stranger's land. And every passing moment in this land feels like sticking a spear into my ever stubborn heart. That I remember mostly on a cold night like this, I sing your songs and stories you told. I tell it so I don't forget. I tell it so they know you exist somewhere in this world that I cannot reach. I tell it for the sins I've committed. I tell it for the block lists and the unanswered texts. Ma, they tell me you weren't the angel I knew. How do I tell them they're the monsters I see? — Myra

Drowning at the shore You were born too smart for your age, Your words too venomous for a child, Your eyes too sharp for a girl, Your feet too fast for your life. Oh young lady, how did you never see the fear in their words? You were told that Life isn't a race to be won, Survival isn't fighting for a cause, That it will all amount to nothing, Because everyone who had once dreamed Can tell you the tale of waking up. Oh young lady, how had you not observed the failure in their wisdom? Your home was built on the sea, And the elders searched for cracks to seal. The water slipped through the walls; The creak never stopped boring holes. They never knew the taste Of a burning flame. So young lady, what had shielded your eyes from the handwritings on the wall? You were told that The gods laid a curse on you from infancy; You were sin before you sinned, Sad before you knew happiness, A witch before you knew charms. They promised to wash you off the Filth you're filled with. Oh young lady, what made you think it was love? You were taught the right way to speak, The best way to act, The finest way to greet, That the best thing is to sit And be still— Still, And watch your life flee. Oh young lady, how had you agreed to this? All you knew was the sound of waves Crashing, The eyes of disapproval, The scornful faces, The abusive lips, Whips—countless whips— And the sound of your muffled cries With bloody hands. Oh young lady, why did you give your life to them? They once said you were too much; Now they complain you're too less. They once said you spoke too much; Now they shame you for speaking so less. They once worried you lived on your tiptoes; Now they urge you with whips to walk— Walk, as long as it's for their cause. All you do is mourn the child you were; You wished you had never listened to them. Oh young lady, when would your mourning end? And when you realized it was all a sham, You paddled across the sea With your life at the brink. The waves crashed; The rain beat down on you. Hell, you got to the shore. That is why, In a room full of people, All you see is an ocean. And when your little voice Is drowned by their words, You hear the sounds of waves crashing. Oh young lady, when will your pitiful existence end? — Myra