None Shall Escape –

“There is no point treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, ‘There now, hang on, you’ll get over it.’ Sadness is more or less like a head cold- with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer.”
 – Barbara Kingsolver, The Bean Trees

s-a-e-c-u-l-u-m

This is no ordinary little house, in a dark wooded lot, with a long curving driveway. Quintessential in time, the smell of rotten leaves, moldy dead trees, and moss create an invitation likely to instill fear. Leaves and draping parasitic vines serve to block out the intrusion of light. Things crawl and slither, poisonous things with teeth naturally sharp to penetrate the hood of protection. A damp chill wraps up the weary and pulls them to the coldness of the nether world. Light mists drift low to the ground, creeping with ethereal madness. Large things, nightmares, snap twigs and disappear with startling proficiency. These all have conspired to hide escape and draw the fearful soul deeper and deeper, sliding down the viscous sides of mortality’s flowers in a one way trip. The house is ancient in design, hundreds of years ago the brick and mortar were set and stony copper gargoyles put here to observe the folly of one gone mad. The door’s misleading, it’s a lure, pulling and tugging to get it’s prey close, crushing hopes with its efficacious skill of holding fast against panicked desperation. Fists pound against it creating unheard echos and with beastly strength the spell is transferred from spirit to flesh. Vibrant greens are subdued to the gray and black of lands beyond. The colors are smudged by an errant creator attempting to dismiss this aberration. Bones of lost hope litter the exposed roots and walkways, little roads to nowhere showing tracks of the worst going in circles. This is the notorious lair of depression, many will enter, none shall escape.

Also published in Broowaha
Also published in Opinionsofeye.com

Change of Light – Following that which changes you

“If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.” – Wayne Dyer




Holding my hands close together, I formed a tenuous cup to hold the growing ball of light. Spreading its warmth through my body and then through the room, it grew whiter with power not of this world, nor of that, but from the synergy of conflict and need present in my heart and in the heart of the tree dwellers. My incantation wasn’t of an arcane sort, but a prayer to the assembly of clouds, gathering to see the trial of feelings. He trespassed against the royal ordinance of the reigning king, his passion and impudence seen in his actions, for his dancing and mourning vacillated all day and night through the weeks. The light now affected the countenance of all in the room, faces showing the betrayal of their minds against their self control, for in spite of themselves, a feeling of joy spread through the room like mist in the valleys of darkened forests. I released my spell with a loud clap, and with relief observed the judges and juries of my peers change with the passing seconds. My point was clear, we can all change when our environment changes. This example pressed all to note that feelings should never lead, when light, objective light, can change even the dampened sorrow and tepid happiness of our habitual thoughts. To yield control to that light which can change us, to capture control of feelings, this is where the transformation begins…

Through the Mist – Finding a way through opinions

“At night the fog was thick and full of light, and sometimes voices.” 

 

For times and times of multiplied times, I tip-toe through the water colored grays and whites of opinions fog, misty coverings over the truest paths. Stepping off my way, slipping on changing whims of irrelevant interventions, I draw blood, bleeding discouragement, marking my errant route. Sitting on rocks of stubborn pride, I bind the wounds of disillusionment. I sought a torch of brilliant revelation to guide me as the north star, with steady light, steady direction, and comfort in a sure way. What will I use as fuel for this flame that licks the mist from the air? My spirit, deeper than the mind, deeper than the soul, found in the stillness of my chamber, provides urns of truth that ignite my blaze of illumination. Confidently waving my baton of bright dancing tongues, plainly the path stands clear. Excuse my hasty advance past you idle players of hate and jealousy, I am committed to the summit of my life. See my flame high on this mountain, follow me you lost and wandering souls, we will climb above the clouds.

Wrestled Notes

“I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore; when he beats his bars and he would be free, it is not a carol of joy or glee, but a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core.” Paul Laurence Dunbar
andreation

Simple prognosticated rhythms flow and diverge

Collapsed principles pile in crumpled beats

Pounding the seconds to say a moment

A tickled thought dances in pretend reality

Hobbled by fettered hope in surreal mist

Finding shadows that breathe life in short bursts

Life’s nemesis throttles the throat of peaceful suns

Wrestled notes become a winged song