I AM THAT WHICH I SEEK
I AM THAT WHICH I SEEK
I AM THAT WHICH I SEEK
Weak, meek, long and strong,
all of the things that keep on going on
that is what I seek
And I am that
I am that which I seek.
From fire to ice, my agony breathes life into my longing and as it dies it cools my whole body until I can’t feel anymore, until I’m frozen with the feeling all over, a stillness and discomfort.
I just wait.
Wait until the next person who comes along with enough heat to warm my soul. My body sits in an absent barren land unable to speak, unable to express. The first cool wind that sends frequent chills is not being able to get over this man. I welcome it, though it hurts me, and though I know reason enough to understand that I shouldn’t, but I want to, and I can’t stop. It’s better than nothing. And yet I don’t seek to change it, and I don’t seek to find someone to replace him, because I know it’ll be a long time before that happens and I don’t know if I’m ready.
A part of me, okay more like all of me wants him and no one else. It feels so silly but I want to be with him so bad every part of every day reminds me of him, and the journey to the grocery store down the street brings a flutter to the wings of my heart knowing I might sneak a glance or that he might notice me. Why why why does he have to be so close to all that I love, why does he have to be all that I love and want. It’s so hard to take.
I know I know I know. I’m focusing on myself. I’m loving myself, and I’m growing into my own power and I have my visions clear ahead of me. I’m taking the necessary steps, but this one part holds me back, in some way it does! It keeps me wanting toward him, and that much less toward myself. I recognize something in him in myself and I realize I need to strive for that, the better parts of myself, the parts I admire, to push them to full realization and fulfill their potential.
I’m so helplessly in love. Yes in love. In lust, maybe more so, but most definitely in love. I hang onto this love for him like a token of my being, a token of validation and beautiful inspiration. It’s a shiny object on my shelf, and I don’t want to take it away and have it forever thrown out, forgotten, left to be picked up by someone else. But it’s not in my possession, it is only a longing, and therefore I am poor, so very poor.
How does one overcome this kind of unrequited lust? Porn, sure. Masturbation, sure. Moving on, sure. But none of it is the same, because it is love, yes I am so deeply in love with this being. I feel his presence all around me, and I wish for it to apparate in physical form that I can see, smell, taste and touch. But if I be granted a chance to be friends, I would take it. I would take it, yes because I long for his voice, and his reason. I long for his lust for life and the songs in his soul. The longer the time since last I interacted with him the worst it gets. The image I build grows, rather than dies, so I am left with more unbearable feelings, but I learn to live without the fulfillment, so I move along, and I still dream, but it is only a half-dream.
Let it warm your hearth,
the one that grows cold and covers with dust.
Dry like a mouth deprived of liquids,
growing weary with fear of the insipid.
The fire that rests inside of us,
each and every one of us.
Call to it.
fear, my child.
go after it.
Fulfill your wims and share your cries.
it yearns for it.
Wishing as you do
with that you do.
Become that which you are,
Dancing alongside you,
Waiting for your hand,
so nearly there…
To carry the fire.
To plant the seed.
Tick Tick Tick
A heart is like a clock
pushing; moving forward,
It goes and goes.
That’s what they do,
running a perfectly matched set of gears,
to show us what?
A purpose intended for the view.
Who is the viewer?
are we non-existent;
only a concept?
An idea held on so tightly
it binds others to submission?
We run, run and run
until we don’t anymore.
But the idea lives on.
We are but a servant of its cause;
a part of its awakening
and without that humble servant
it would not wield any power.
It would be
of this present
of the absence of its conception.
It would be nothing at all
And all would be nothing.
A slab of jade taken out of the glass case is being shown for customers ahead of me and a familiar figure is there. He approaches and begins to tell all of us the qualities and makeup of the stone. It’s engraved, carved and framed into a shape I can’t recall. The owner sees that this person knows his facts well enough and steps back, watching him talk with appreciation. Later in the dream I’m with this person in a car, a van home… something of that vibe and we talk, with a depth of feeling; there is a strong connection between us, but I’m in awe of his inner beauty, not outer…but I feel this exciting love for him, and he tells me he would be with me, and I said “You would be with me forever?!” unbelieving and overwhelmed with how it’s possible that I can receive this great love from a great human being.
Is this a sign that he is out there waiting? Did he dream of me last night? I’m not sure who this man is, but he feels like many I’ve partially loved molded into one. It was a beautiful, soulful love, overtaken with gratitude. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I needed to feel this full, this satisfaction of love returned, not unrequited. The jade wielder. My love can give me this, the properties of a jade stone, an open heart, a compassionate well ebb and flowing towards me, an undeserving divinity that I can hold, preciously. I will hold it dearly. Sometimes it’s hard to write, when I’m feeling so at peace, cleared of my thoughts, where do they go, and where can I brain-dump when there’s not much to dump? I write more when I’m feeling a lot and right now I’m content.
My voice is open, but not fully. There’s not as much weight around it as before but there needs to be a key for it. The key is I need to get in touch with myself more through meditation and spiritual practice. I’ll come back slowly, and I have to remember to not be so hard on myself, to just let it come back when it does, flow naturally.
There will be days where I cannot stop. I’ll write a marathon of stories, and on and on I go, and some days I must rest, let it sit, and clear away the wounds of yesterday, before I can go on. Everything I feel is in the measure of overwhelm, overfull, that’s the only way I feel, and it’s wonderful each time. Contentment feels empty. I would rather feel bliss or deep sorrow, because then I will write. I’ll write for the sounds of my heart, and the calling of my soul. Then I will write. I will write to accompany life’s melody, the song of us, free flowing. Thank you those who loved me, and thank you to those I loved, and thank you to those who will love me and I, love them.