Confessions of A Lost Soul

Pardon me if I don’t meet your gaze directly. It’s not that I no longer recognize you, but I prefer the sanctuary of anonymity: fearful that my eyes may disclose the longing of a soul yearning to be claimed. I no longer know myself if I were to be truthful. That “truth” that longs to open its sultry lips, but is only capable of inaudible whispers. If I were true to myself, I would answer you without hesitation. I would look back at you and see the err of my ways. I could perhaps decipher what it is I long for. Possibly, I could reach for your hand without hesitation, allowing myself to unfold in their cupping warmth. But you are not the one. Had you been, I would have answered those piercing eyes mustering the strength to vocalize the internal longing; then giving all of those inquisitive of my nature the answer of what it is I want. Need.

But again, I have failed all of you, for the tired feet of a woman that carries the stature of confidence is only a limp vessel on unstable footing. Somehow, I am unable to walk on the soil that breathes life of the new day, stumbling forward only to vacillate desperately for balance.

I am confident we are not meant to suffer. “We”, as in the human race. I believe this to be true: man is meant to thrive, contribute and inspire. Having donned the soiled gown of redemption for too long I may simply have forgotten any other way other than this lonely path. Surely, if you were the one that was to offer me solace, you would not dismiss these thoughts or counsel me otherwise or worse yet, ask me to get over myself. So callous and simple are your responses.

 If it were you that had been to meant to merge with me, you would not feign ignorance or absurdities of the world from a selfish position that all will be well. Yes, I know it is well generally speaking, but that does not mean I am well: trapped in this capsule of uncertainty. It is natural you know to die more than one death. I mean this metaphorically in case you are anxious I will harm myself. I have said many times that in order to come to terms with the lure of life that one dies, shedding the layers of conformity until the core is able to sustain itself.

Does this trouble you? Does it make you want to turn your back that the illusion  of me that you carried for so long is a walking paradox. Does it frighten you?

I know it frightens me; that I cannot splash the hues of color on this empty canvas. Once I saw the potential for it: the bright array of life spilling forward from brushstrokes of my words. Now I think what’s the point? I think to myself that whether in anger or in brief exhilaration, I am no matter what misunderstood. Even to myself I am baffling, fluxuating from wanting to explode with possibility- yet standing rigid in place, watching time move forward as the body of potential decays into a standing corpse.

The mind is the only thing that speaks. It speaks to me. Of me. Sometimes, I recognize the words and other times, it is not my voice that occupies this space. It’s a voice of a wounded child that has yet to resolve the interpretations she has placed on herself and possibly has wrongly carried the burden that was not meant as hers. It is the adult now that reconciles these peculiarities. It is the adult that makes amends and nurses the child within.

Please don’t look at me with pity. Even I have disdain for those I pity. Reserve your indignation and woeful looks for another. It does neither of us good. I do not want your pity. I only want to express to you that I am still lost, looking and seeking. I would have thought that by now, having been graced with a womb that produced the beauty of children, having fumbled and failed at marriage, that I would no longer be mournful. Instead I am resentful, having allowed the seed of discontent to harvest, vanishing the quest for any possibility of reclaiming a lost youth or an opportunity to blossom myself. I am blessed and I am cursed. It’s such with a few of us that claim to be the poets of this world.

 It’s no one’s fault really. It simply is.

I wanted the sun to drench me with its bold strength, but I cannot stand the harsh rays of reality: squinting when it’s light touches my temple, seeking the shadow under the trees. It is there I seek solace. I stand against the bold structure that provides me with temporary shade clutching at its limbs and the rings of life that speak of a history untold. I wish I were that tree, reaching for the heavens. Instead, I simply lean against it burying underneath the soil that surrounds it prayers: in hopes that the branches of life will carry forwards the wishes and dream.

Even the moonlight- woman’s enigma has failed me. It reflects the haunted eyes and a tired soul. So in the light I hide and in the lull of the moon’s smile I am exposed. Where is it a woman like me goes: far too forward in her thinking and yet imprisoned by antiquated ideals? I have carried the sins of the past, burying them into the subconscious. Yes, I know I am not the sinner I proclaim. Surely, I am no murder, thief or vagrant. But my interpretation of what “could have been” is a sin in of itself, holding me captive. Frozen. Stoic.

 More than anything, I fear I will not recognize him, this person that I have conjured in my mind when he comes. If he comes, I want nothing more than for him to  reach for me, offer compassion and a strong stature upon which I can lean on. Mind you I do not want to be handled or owned. I prefer to say I want the opportunity to flourish. It is the man that feeds me with encouragement and yet takes a few steps back, allowing me to breathe my dreams true: Yes, he is that one that  will make me wilt in his arms. In the event he passes me and I am too preoccupied with my internal bashing, I will tell him this before he too becomes an appirition:

“Forgive me for I did not know light for I have hidden from it for too long. Pardon me if I did not sway at the light scent of happiness, I have yet to inhale the jasmine whiff of hope. If I fail to recognize you, come back for me and help me walk this journey with a partner that will not put me on a pedestal only to fall, but revere me on an equal plane. I am not interested in a throne above the masses, I want the simplicity of being.’

How do you suppose I will recognize him? Will spirit take him towards me or will he walk towards me? I’m certain that it will be we meet halfway, both of us confessing.