Lying on my bed, that's after all where most of life happens, between those two stops out of the main road lay my thought. Stop one was the paper, the other was the dream.
I keep thinking about people. I keep coming back to them as if in some mysterious litany of salvation, as if I am the God waiting for humans to crucify me again, and through their holding of my hands, and the warmth of their fingers holding me together with the cross waiting to feel the love that longs my heart to be saved from the numbness of happiness.
This is where my thought had been. This is where it was born this afternoon. I lay down with it like a lover betrays his love, for the body, like a lover finds his own love unbearable to carry, I lay down and the thought lay on me like a foreign body. And I was not the God in this world that came to me. The people whose thought brought me there were not asking for forgiveness, the carrying of the sins was for them I found, some sort of obligatory exercise of empathy. Those people stayed silent, it is a praying and ordering, it is an imposing crowd I live among, this world was wanting me to stand on my two feet, some mere exercise that its unbearableness can stand there with me, the foreign body hanging from my chest dead and me dying with it. And lying there with the body spreading over me still the evening found me still too, physically alive while some soul inside me screaming for the cross.
It is me who asked for these thoughts I know. I ask for them when happiness withdraws into some miserable search for causality. Some fingers on my hand moved, almost as if it was someone else's hand hanging on the side of the bed. I stayed, I let the cross fool me, dishevelled into some idle comfort of sadness.
What a weakness it was that I let myself dream for a moment the room full of doors opening, I dreamed the sound, I smelled the shoes walking in drenched in the rain and the weight meeting the eyes wondering where is it that my surprise was coming from. Is it surprise of affection reciprocated? Is this surprise of affection reciprocated in the same way, for it is only in those comfortable similarities that man understands a man. I thought the eyes of the man opening the door and the misunderstanding put me in that chair tied up, light blinding me and the blindness made it known that I knew what I wanted from the hand who got me there. The search brought him to the meeting of the eyes . It is not affection, that surprised me, the bringing of the feet and the hand to my doorstep seeking some fox's eyes, it was the feeling of the door opening and affection finding itsself incapable of lifting the weight that had me there, the instand urge to keep the door shut in the fear that she would find its way there, and realise it's insufficiency.
In the absence of love,
I was the Atlas.
For isn't love the wanting to lift of a human's weight? Or is it becoming the Atlas for wanting to lift the weight love wants to lift for you?
It dawned on me that in the absense of love I had to lift my own weight
It dawned on me that in it's presence I shall by now know that love is wanting to lift my own weight still.
I keep thinking about people. I keep coming back to them as if in some mysterious litany of salvation, as if I am the God waiting for humans to crucify me again, and through their holding of my hands, and the warmth of their fingers holding me together with the cross waiting to feel the love that longs my heart to be saved from the numbness of happiness.
This is where my thought had been. This is where it was born this afternoon. I lay down with it like a lover betrays his love, for the body, like a lover finds his own love unbearable to carry, I lay down and the thought lay on me like a foreign body. And I was not the God in this world that came to me. The people whose thought brought me there were not asking for forgiveness, the carrying of the sins was for them I found, some sort of obligatory exercise of empathy. Those people stayed silent, it is a praying and ordering, it is an imposing crowd I live among, this world was wanting me to stand on my two feet, some mere exercise that its unbearableness can stand there with me, the foreign body hanging from my chest dead and me dying with it. And lying there with the body spreading over me still the evening found me still too, physically alive while some soul inside me screaming for the cross.
It is me who asked for these thoughts I know. I ask for them when happiness withdraws into some miserable search for causality. Some fingers on my hand moved, almost as if it was someone else's hand hanging on the side of the bed. I stayed, I let the cross fool me, dishevelled into some idle comfort of sadness.
What a weakness it was that I let myself dream for a moment the room full of doors opening, I dreamed the sound, I smelled the shoes walking in drenched in the rain and the weight meeting the eyes wondering where is it that my surprise was coming from. Is it surprise of affection reciprocated? Is this surprise of affection reciprocated in the same way, for it is only in those comfortable similarities that man understands a man. I thought the eyes of the man opening the door and the misunderstanding put me in that chair tied up, light blinding me and the blindness made it known that I knew what I wanted from the hand who got me there. The search brought him to the meeting of the eyes . It is not affection, that surprised me, the bringing of the feet and the hand to my doorstep seeking some fox's eyes, it was the feeling of the door opening and affection finding itsself incapable of lifting the weight that had me there, the instand urge to keep the door shut in the fear that she would find its way there, and realise it's insufficiency.
In the absence of love,
I was the Atlas.
For isn't love the wanting to lift of a human's weight? Or is it becoming the Atlas for wanting to lift the weight love wants to lift for you?
It dawned on me that in the absense of love I had to lift my own weight
It dawned on me that in it's presence I shall by now know that love is wanting to lift my own weight still.
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