Is there limpidity in yesterdays,
or an occlusion of tomorrows?
That I had a stillness of forgetting
a deathly wish of undying, like
a purgation in lifeless turmoil in living,
if I were to be callous in forgoing duty?
And the trauma was just an abridging
of those tomes wrapped in dust of the past,
where I peered into my reflections of being
and wondered if existence was mere existence
at all? If those ghosts that drive me through
sacred spaces were answering to my unconscious
knocking on doors in the hallways of long-lost
but dimly apparent fortresses. I am not wanton to cut
those trees of my sylvan responsibilities. Each of
them holding their thick limbs to me, thick
in the soulful legacy of my past. Were I to become
each of them in a moment? Or take an unmitigated eternity
to savour them all, and be in a frenzied panic to explore
who I should actually porter to refurbish, like a scaffolding that
only has a choice to hook onto one building. But I am
not cruel to set fire to all else of my vintage! Because I have no
intention of burning any bridge. If, only, if I could be
a versicoloured trousseau in marriage to this life, not
just a disparateness from the unique singularity of each of
the characters of my past – Jacao, James (Jacob) of Scotland
and England, Jacques du Molay, James (Yakov) the Just, Jacob
(the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary), Jacob, the lion of Judah
(and father of Joseph, the Vizier of Egypt), even as mythologically
old as Horus, the one-eyed Godhood and so much more,
in their solid construct of history and my fortressal cahoots
with eternity; in an irreplaceable and indispensable journey.
I am simply like a priceless wonder-struck ragpicker in a
minefield (pun intended) of diamonds, that I have not only to
figure out lives, but loves as well (Mum, Dad, True Love, pets,
siblings and other dearies) that epitomise the uniqueness of
singular souls through the timeless chain of different lifetimes.
So, I stand motionless in this haloed but reluctant fugue of multiplicity,
but not dissociative of myself in the variability. Should I be deemed
schizophrenic for the now, retention of my memory of the dialogues that
I had briefly forgotten. That the wounds inflicted on me are a blessing
that help me reflect the uniqueness of who I am. That the characters that
flake my soul have carved me out into the writing material of this lifetime,
so silently and loquaciously, like God in a soliloquy to himself, but with
the resounding companionship of the knowledge of who he is and who he
truly loves! That the realisation of saying I am tired is not as honest as actually
feeling as fresh with the conflagration of wisdom of my antiquity and duty, that
I can keep burning with what all my youthful timelessness and eternity is worth!
montes-musings.blog 