Scars mark the way to future conflict.
Their beauty still me
as I bend to scoop
on my face.
There I am.
I would not recognize myself
for want of a compress,
soothe my presence.
I caste out a spider web and it sticks to their faces. It sinks in, penetrating their soul until I can see every pattern inside them. I draw from the pattern.
“Is this the way? Is this the way?”
I bring the pattern unto myself and try to fit into it’s shapes, to see if I will feel better.
“Is this the way? Is this the way?”
It is not the way. But I am so lonely. So I dip into my spider bucket and I try again. Again and again, onto the same person or different persons. Persons who look happy. Persons who look loved.
There is nothing left in my spider bucket and my imprints are jumbled and cross-sectioned inside of me, telling me what to do in so many ways that I do not know myself anymore.
“Is this the way?” “Is this the way?”
I am less lonely, because of all the voices. But I am less happy. And now I must be away in order to untangle the mess.
What is my pattern? What is my pattern? Does it run through me freely? Is it made of ideas or is it the song of my own soul?
The spirits sing. The spirits shout towards me. They say do not waste your precious life being anyone but yourself! Do not waste your precious, precious time..not exploding into the rapture of your precious, precious self, a song that no one can ever or will ever be able to sing but you. If you don’t, we will miss it. You will miss it. You must share yourself with the world. You must find the flower and care for it like it is your very own. Because it is the one thing that is.
I put on my mask, poured hot from the kiln and pounded into a shape only I can describe. The marionette strings are high, up into the world where no one can reach them. I dance, and it is not my dance. It is the dance of a jester, one who calculates how one will be received. I am happy. I am received and well, my brooches are colorful and dancing.
But my heart is deep within and my heart is hidden from all of you. For you are the enemy. My wiles and my smiles are meant to weave other webs, the kind I can sleep in and dream lullabyes sung to me by made up sweetness. But it’ll do. It’ll do fine as I do not ask much of anyone besides their praise. My heart is closed in a way that even I do not know it.
If I ever want to find true love I will have to get alone. Cut the marionette strings, consider the mask of power and lie still while my heart beats quietly.
“Is this the way? “ “Is this the way?”
My little heart speaks to me in syllables unspeakable. The spirits are silent, waiting to hear me stir in the darkness, to come clean with my own blade of reason, to feel the truth inside me.
Years pass and I am still lying on the dark earthen floor. I am taking in the butterflies. I am considering my past. I am looking at the edges of things, where they were not serving me before and will not again if I continue forward. I am watching great forces move across the horizon. I do not want to make a move, for I have not changed. I do not know who I am.
There is nothing. There is nothing and there is nothing. Once again, I am nothing. There is no master pattern to map and there is no self to hold onto. I am a vessel. There is nothing but movement and change. There is no expression but song. The kind of song that burst forth unprepared for with no warning. I am a song and I have lost my way.
But there is no way and stillness, eventually, only leads to death.
“Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that never will be trod again. Wanderer, there is no road– Only wakes upon the sea.
Caminante, son tus huellas el camino, y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar.”
― Antonio Machado, Campos de Castilla