Cleft in the Rock
The Rift revisited
by Casey Sheldon
The path out of my heart
Now lies open to the public
Littered with death & woe
Thousands of piercing spears
Scattered throughout
This blasted canyon
This Cleft in the Rock
Horribly defended by any means
My cheek
Umberto Eco says that all writers have pieces that were written in the throes of teen angst, and that bad writers publish them, while good writers burn them… What am I if I blog that bad stuff from high school that helped develop my own personal style? Hmm… something in between? hopefully, so here goes:
Sometimes I wonder if the search for the perfect girl is worth the worry at all. Whenever I am around any girl, I feel like I’m being rated. This might be okay if I was a ten, but I think I tend to rate about a one, so its not the most pleasant feeling. I feel more like a novelty item; an object that everyone enjoys looking at, but no one wants to buy. I used to have a price, but now I’m on the “giveaway” rack, and everyone wants the expensive stuff, not bloody charity.
I see a girl. Her slender form is lithe against the rigidity of the staircase she sits on. Her glance turns my way for a second, but not long enough to discern my sadness, or the bitterness behind my foolish eyes. My eyes are fools to even glance her way, as they know she would not gaze back with admiration.
The commitee in the back of my mind starts in on me again:
(Perhaps in disgust, never admiration)
(Not much to admire in you)
She turns and walks away. The symbolism slaps me so hard, my cheek hurts.
I see another girl. She is beautiful also. When she gets older, she’ll be a knock-out. She’s in trouble for some thing or another. Her sentence is to clean the amphitheatre. I debate with myself and decide to help her. I pick up some trash, and help her finish the job. As we exit I strain myself to start a conversation. After the third sentence, she cuts me off, “Bye, see you later.”
She leaves me walking by myself outside the amphitheatre as she walks away.
“My cheek”, I whisper to myself.
Help?
Are we all so trapped in the constructs of society that when we’re drowning in loneliness we can’t reach across a void to seek a fellow human being that can just relieve our silence? I hate the little fucking box that I feel so constricted in…. Why are humans so intent on seeing each other MISERABLE!!! I don’t understand people. I want to love and be loved…. for that I’m ridiculed and mocked by those who are supposed to be close to me and I HATE IT….. Why don’t they understand that I am human and just want to live and love and BE… without giving in to the corruption of preaching at people from moralistic soapboxes or the hateful quiet desperation that is now the American way too. I’m so fucking alone. Even if I try, the words I need to say disappear from my mind before I can say them. I’ve got nothing to live for and nothing to die for. If anyone can hear me… help?!?!
Strength
Hopefully we all learn at last
When to put all in the past
Give forgiveness for the sins
That hurt so deep it can’t defend
My friendships still are till the end
No pain enough to veils rend
Rather joy or love to see
Are better in the eyes to be
Perhaps we’ll all see love and truth
When we gaze into the sooth
The zephyr bright that lightly trips
Across the sail of brightest ships
May every time your heart is sad
You think of someone that you had
That cheered your heart and gave peace
And it will keep you strong, at least
Good
Good day…. what else can I say about it…. I woke up in kind of a crappy mood… got over it…. Those are usually the best days I have…. when I let go and allow circumstances to play out in their own way…. I’m starting to see that certain emotions are the toxins of the soul…. recognise them and don’t be tainted by them…. this too shall pass…. hehe
Crap
what crap i’ve written! and all my melodramatic hullaballo got me nowhere for nothing. how fucking appropriate, eh? I guess the only reason I publish here is because like so many, I’m afraid to take the giant leap of faith that sending my work to a publisher would require. Literary cowardice is perhaps not the most pathetic of traits in a human being. Damn it all, I’m so goddamn apathetic anymore, even to myself. Maybe it started with me….. Perhaps I was never apathetic until I stopped caring about what I was manifesting, and what my own Bonum Opus would turn into. Now I watch the signs, knowing and recognising my lack of coherent ability to control or influence my surroundings. And this electronic ablution is my only defense against the apathetic demon inside my heart that rends all sense and sensibility, blood and bone, love from empassioned reaction to stimuli. Am I a human? or a slave to the addictions that were my life… that kept me from caring, feeling, or even being myself…. they let me hide away from the actors and attackers that seemed so eager to slay me…. Now they laugh and mock at my lack of strength… My enemies feast with the sums of rewards that could have, would have, maybe never should have been mine, but nonetheless they are all the heartier in their merriment for my destruction….. melodrama makes every little insult an injury and every molehill a mountain…. gotta love it…
