Words That Change

Diary #53 – Deep breath

In diary on 11 April, 2010 at 11:04

I’ve seen now why they do it.

The adventurers off to Switzerland to climb the Eiger, to India to start a life, to begin a company that will make millions, a charity that will serve the world, bring smiles to a million orphans’ faces…

Why they laugh and with endless positivity; scale heights and how I yearn to be with them, yearn to be a part of their great feats of derring do. To scale and come down again and beam and accept the rapture. It must be like a drug.

It must be like a charm that works its way into your belly. A curse that promises the writhing of a snake, the arms that will embrace and take you with them, the harm that comes when the good battle is fought.

But this wishing, this aching carries its own harm. I’ve sat after travelling wondering the next step, with an open life, free of constraints – what will you do?

And I did until I didn’t do anything. For two weeks I have been at a halt, barely able to move unless necessity required. And all the while a burning in the stomach was asking the point of action, experience of friendship, of harm, of life. It was as critical as that.

It was as critical as a bird telling you its chirp was a knife, an answer that writhed instead of solved. And that’s fine.  It’s passing. It is not the permanent thing.

But I see now the lust for adventure, the yearn to better and climb and move and dynamically cut through until nothing left but my own handiwork – was a ruse – a petty and childish ruse – to escape from a feeling that none of this was worth it.

Not the coffee or the sun, not you and not these fingers as they type, chirrupping in synchrony with the birds outside my spring window.

How could a life remove itself from itself so repeatedly?

It doesn’t. The end is a dissolve that fills your chest until it breaks with a giant, exhilerating breath.


She walks and in her walk
Gathers up the tides that tie
And keep me
From her
Rumours of a love that passed
In the rhythm of a woman
That does not wear
With time
The corner of a room
An angel speaks
When I sleep the last thing
I see is her face
Her hair, her life, her clothes have changed
But the spark that flares when I hear her name
Has not.
Longing is a path to its own liberation.
  1. You are my kind of writer. Typo in p 9- or else awkward phrase “this fingers as they type.”
    I connect. What are the mysteries of tentacles?

    • Hi 365,

      Thank you. It’s great to have you coming by.

      The mysteries of the tentacles will have to wait. We need to know each other a lot better for that.

      Thanks for the typo note – it’s corrected. Looking forward to connecting again.


  2. eyes closed in the deep lush grasses,
    swinging hips in a fragrant breeze

      I wrapped my dreams around your silence
      and found the path lost in whispers.

      Opening eyes in the deep lush grasses
      moving with a grace that becomes me
      dancing in the glowing embers of you
      a new way emerges

  3. How delicious and romantic. I float on your words.

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