Jigsaw

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty seven

Jigsaw

He was born a jigsaw puzzle. Complete and beautiful, not needing anything, not missing anything. He was whole, seamless. A masterpiece.

And then he started to grow up. He went to school. They taught him things. But instead of adding to his wondrous collage, they set boundaries on his beauty. The rules and laws, each method and fact chipped away at him. They did not assist with his growth, but instead broke him down.

They told him how things were, and stopped him from imagining how things could be.

And he let them take him apart. He didn't know any better. He was an innocent child. Young and trusting, he let everyone in.

He let the parents and teachers and lawmen set fences and walls up around his freedom. And before the boy even got to discover what he was capable of, what knowledge he already had, before he even got to explore the landscape of his own masterpiece, it was stolen from him.

The older he got, the quicker the pieces were snatched up. It wasn't long before his mind was greatly hindered. He barely had the ability to dream. He had had so much potential when he entered the world. He had been whole, complete. Now he barely resembled the orchestra he had once been.

The women were the worst. He gave himself to them, heart and soul. They browsed through his pieces, filling their greedy hands and shiny purses. And he loved them. He didn't know what his own happiness cost him, he was blinded by their beauty. 

By the middle of his life, he was fractured. He had lost all powers of imagination. It was all he could do to follow the rules and bend to the law. He was tired and broken. But there was one more woman that he was to meet. And she took more of him than anything ever had.

With nothing but a few dozen fragments left, the man and woman had a child. He was overjoyed. This was his own baby. A part of his soul. But the babe grew into a toddler, and the toddler grew old enough to attend school.

And the man saw that his little babe's life was also a puzzle. That at this moment in time he was perfect. He didn't need teaching or altering, he just needed freedom. And so the man spoke to his wife, and they retrieved the little boy from school. They took him to a small cabin in a fairytale forest where dreams roamed free. The family lived by a warm lake, and they surrounded the babe with love and nature and all things pure and true.

But the little boy had already been chipped away at. His beauty a small part undone. And the man saw this, and he wept deeply, for he could not stand to see another miracle ruined.

The man looked at himself and saw a few splashes of colour here and there, but his marvel was long lost. Too far broken to be saved. And so he did the only good thing he would ever do. He took the last of his pieces, each shard of his soul, and he gave them to his son. He filled the holes in his child until he was near seamless once more. And with the very last sliver of himself, the man completed his son's puzzle, and gave everything he had for his little boy's freedom.

Revenge

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty six

Heart burn

The flaming pain

brutal visions

my lungs tied deep

struggle struggle

this bondage is not exciting-

anymore

Head ache

nausea

rhythmic thrusts

I turn to leave,

but bleed too much.

Thrones of blades

a liars chair

kings abate

pay me no fare

higher on my pedestal

I teeter on the brink

the jester is a bounding fool

he forces me to sink

knees knees

bruised and used and well abused

the crews and crows barren of clothes

tie me gag me kill me fill me

smoke and ash

pyre and trash

he tastes of lemons-

sour darts

rotten cloves, and

hickory

tug of war

with my intestines

offer me to the divine

a last low cry

swallowed whole

reaching to that golden throne

echo echo

gulls will fly

“follow us”

I do abide

black and violet

cyan and pepper

feeling betterbetterbetter

Knotted nerves

unfold-

reveal

scores and scores of apple peels

blossom.bluebells.delicate things.

I wash the skin,

stuff things back in

a hill of water

hard as soft

offers to me, weapons wrought

in sand, in stone, in shades of blight

choices choices

arrows flight

one bonesawbow

“hello hello

pick me though.

I'll be true and I'll be fair,

and more than that,”

I'LL BRING THEIR BLOOD

with me, sinew, bones and sharp

I stabbed back through

the seasonings

feeling

old and young and gagged

thorny whistles, whispered dear

“the jesterjester draws so near”

poised and taught I taught him poise

no more tip me

never-noise

Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty five

Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love

Do you ever feel like you are on a completely separate intellectual level from everyone else? Perhaps intellectual isn't the right word. I don't mean more knowledgable on a subject, or with a greater talent at word problems or math. And not quite emotional levels. Everyone feels fear, anxiety, pain, awe. This level is a mixture of intellectual and emotional, but deeper than them as well.

Maybe this is what being an "old soul" feels like. To not know or feel something, but to be something that everyone else is not. And not to simply be an individual, but to understand in some "spiritual" way truths that others could not even fathom?

The struggle to put into words what I am, it's almost painful. To not be able to express what I mean by feeling alone. And it's not defined by being physically or emotionally abandoned with no friends or family, but in your soul, feeling separated. Detached almost, from reality itself.

Every conversation, every exchanged word and worry, even those you take part in, seem utterly and completely trivial. Infinitesimal beside what you are. Sometimes, to take part in certain conversations is pointless to the brink of pain. Wasting words and time let alone thoughts on these matters is so disturbing, it makes you physically nauseous. The anger and outrage at being asked such trivial questions is insulting to who you are. A blow thrown at the very definition of yourself.

How do you live, how do you continue to care about money, relationships, insults or comments when your soul is so near to the surface? When you are so true to the point of bursting? When the lack of general clarity in the world is so overwhelming? All you want to do is run to the sun and be enveloped in it's superseding warmth.

I am troubled. I am greedy. Not in the material sense, but in ways of understanding. "Knowledge" for lack of a better word, is the only thing I search for. I don't want money or love or power, I simply want to be.

I want to sit in a pillowy hammock and feel the heat on my face. I want to stare at the endless ocean. I want to listen to the stories of the sea and the songs of the wind. I want to understand, and be understood.

I want to sit by a fire in an oversized chair, cradled as in the womb. I wish to do nothing but read. To read and read and soak up all of the knowledge in the entirety of existence. I want to be taken to worlds unrealized, and discover in them truths in myself. And in the end, I wish to take everything I've learned and share it. To give the gift of inner peace to everyone. I wish to stir society. To shake and crumble the foundation, every cold pillar it's been built on. I want to tear down the statue of shallowness. To replace it and to pull back the curtain and reveal nothing but a light. To give a show of sincere and total knowledge. To allow others to be able to, and to join them in the pure joy of being. Let us understand one another.

Let us know? Nay!

Let us feel? Nay!

Let us be the world.

I implore you to evaluate your priorities. What does your mind migrate to? What thoughts fill your head daily?

Truth, beauty, freedom and love. We idolize and strive for them, but are they not the same thing? Isn't the truth freedom? Isn't love beautiful? Isn't beauty freedom and love truthful? These are not merely words, these are the definitions of life. These are not attainable, because you already possess them. The four ideals combine into one single, flawless essence. 

You.

They reside already within yourself, you merely need to bring them forth. To know anything, or anyone, you first need to know yourself.

LOST IN SOCIETY

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty four

LOST IN SOCIETY

prologue

I am restless.

My soul is calm. My mind is calm. My body is exhausted, but still, everything runs. Constantly moving, ever roaming through the space that is my consciousness. What am I looking for?

part one

I'm lost.

In a forest, tall trees everywhere. Taller than the pyramids, and stronger, older. Dusk has come and gone, the nighttime firmly settled in. The woods are quiet. Dead. Nothing moves but me. And I race through the thick brush. Or maybe I don't move at all, perhaps the leaves are spinning around me. Either way I don't know where I'm going.

Everything seems hostile in it's lucidity. The cool air infiltrates my mind. The branches reach into the deepest part of me. Touching, fondling, violating my very soul. The essence of my life is lost. The trees have found it. With lonely and long stewed upon hunger, the forest has taken me. With viscous and quick bites, I am devoured.

part two

"More."

There is darkness all around. A pain, deep in my gut.

"More."

This voice, like a thousand voices joined together, pitches scattered all over, but speaking in perfect unison. I hear it, not through my ears but as a voice inside my head.

"More."

The ache again. In the very center of me. In the nerve of my nerves. It throbs, no, it wrenches. Wringing my innards into nothing more than ground beef. Like the leftovers collected from the factory floors, then compressed and shoved into the thin pig intestines and served as 'hot dogs'.

I gasp. But there is no air to breathe. Not suffocation, simply a lack of need. Like breathing is just an idea, not a reality. Like walking if you have no legs.

"Give.... Us..... More....."

I shake my head, but I cannot move. This striking pain, drilling my core. It's hard to think around. To think what it wants- what they want.

I don't- I don't have any more.

But they don't respond. I can't move. I can't blink, I have no eyes to open or close.

Who are they? What do they want? What have I become? Is this death? Have I fallen into a coma? But the PAIN. I cannot concentrate with it's stabbing presence. What is it? Why? Why? WHY?!

"Hunger."

part three

It's quiet.

Apart from the sound of silence, there is nothing to withhold. No sights, no sounds, no smells. No sense of touch, no sense of direction. Only a sense of self. And even that is fading.

Without a face, without a voice, without hands to hold things, without a body to feel things, what proof is there that I even exist? Do I exist? Or am I just a stray thought? Some half-formed character thought up by a bored man, doomed to roam the realm of the almost-created forever? Am I a conscience? Am I attached to a larger being? Simply stored and saved for a moment when my essence is needed? The smallest flicker light? Am I the last sparkle in a dying child's eyes? The last breathe of a drowning man? The only hopeful word for a suicidal woman? Was I born this way? The forest merely a mirage from my mind when it used to be strong and whole? Was I ever human? Am I human now?

Without a face, without a voice, without hands to hold things, without a body to feel things, what proof is there that I even exist? Do I exist? Or am I just a......

part four

"More."

What? What was that?

"Mooorrrre."

The words spark a memory, shake a cobweb from an old photograph.

"We... Want... More..."

With a sudden swoop the picture is clear. Stone pillars stand amidst a rolling fog. Weeds and bushes grow asunder through the unkempt temple.

And there! A person, infinitesimal beside the stones, but a person none the less. Picking it's way through the underbrush, scared. Resting a hand on one pillar, the man pants, panicked and petrified. And I feel it. I feel the hand on the stone. But no, it's not stone is it? No. A tree, as tall as the pyramids, but stronger and older. A soft warmth comes from the human, like a mother's hand cupped to a babes cheek.

The fear smells like melted sugar. Like silken butter in a hot pan. Nothing has ever had such an enticing aroma.

The life throbs, with every heartbeat I can see each vein lit up like lightning.

The pain in my center screams louder than ever. It needs this man. I need this man.

I reach out.

part five

We... want... more...

You and the Now

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty three

You and the Now

For all of your material possessions, all of the people, all of the shit you surround yourself with, you don't realize that you will always be alone. The lover or wife that you hold so dear, the boyfriend that is "a part of you", these people are alone too. Emotional connections and coital interactions aside, there is nothing but you.

You came into this world alone, and you'll leave this world alone. Even surrounded by the other 63 passengers of the failing flight 232, really and truly you are left only with your inner self. Your soul, your sense of self, your true Being.

And in your last moments, it may be the first time you realize this, and it may scare the shit out of you.

That you are not your car, you are not your Rolex, you are not your "better half". You are not even your past or future. There is a you beneath all of that. A you not programmed by society, a you with it's core thoughts and feelings. Not the trivial thoughts that run through your mind on a dat-to-day basis, but the true fiber of your very being. Your most natural instincts. The ones not controlled by your past or future. But the present you. Your everyday mind is constantly swallowed by memories and either hopes or worries for the future. Never truly able to relax into the present, to feel every other living thing, to know things without thinking about them. This is you. Your very center. And if you don't try to connect with it, it will scare you in your last moments.

If you do get an inward glimpse through your pain and physical possessions, the Being that you see may seem like a stranger to you.

Think about how you overreact when something you own breaks, think about the moment of false accomplishment you feel when you buy something you've wanted for a while. Think about your goals. Are you working towards another purchase? More shit to fill your empty life with? Is your goal with your job? A promotion? Is any deeper meaning finding it's way into your life? Do you strive for spiritual enlightenment or global understanding?

Make a daily to-do list, and leave the tasks on the page. Don't constantly think about them and all the stuff you need to get done. You have your list, you're organized. Let your mind rest and simply absorb the now. Don't let yourself dwell in the past or project into the future. Because both will always stay where they are. But the Now, the Now is always immediate, ever present. Stop trying to be something, and simply let yourself be.

Inspired by Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now.
I recommend everyone reads it, the book will open your eyes to a part of you you didn't know existed. Will make you examine your priorities, and allow you to really know yourself.

Best wishes and sincere hopes you reach true knowledge,

Foxx.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Power_of_Now

A Cup of Coffee, a Taste of Life

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty two

A Cup of Coffee, a Taste of Life

The subtle comfort of a familiar coffee shop. Welcoming faces and smiles as warm as the drinks. Beans from exotic countries halfway around the world. Names hard to pronounce with flavour profiles of other foods. 

I order a Bolivia. The beans ground fresh, and brewed for each individual mug. The scent of rich coffee rolls in waves as the beans are crushed open. Boiling water searches through the maze of caffeinated flakes, exploring each hill and crevice while bringing the flavours with it on it's journey down into the cup.

Silky, scented, and steaming.

The cup is put before me. I wrap my cold fingers around the heated ceramic, lacing them together at the back. Cradling the java like a jewel thief holding the Hope Diamond. I blow, gently as to not slosh any of the liquid amber over the side. A sip. Hot and heavenly, like the first kiss from a new lover. Each cup is a relationship, sweet and surprising at the start, cool, and sometimes bitter at the end.

The liquid runs over my tongue. Returning the favour of my caressing the mug, the liquid touches each taste bud, teasing it into alertness. Suddenly - experience. Impossible flavours of toasted caramel, sweet toffee and an overall soft, lightly weighted taste.

A soft sigh of release. Caffeine, like nicotine, provides a sense of knowing. Of calm and patience, even when the inner effects are quite the opposite.

The quick grind of the next drink being prepared rouses me from my trance. An espresso shot being compressed into the perfect puck, blistering hot water seeping through, collecting the heavy notes and caramel flavours. The hiss of milk being aerated, followed by a whisper as the steam wand is plunged deeper into the milk, heating the rest of the jug.

An orchestra of sounds and smells, swirling together to deliver a creamy cappuccino. The small cup bears host to an impeccably formed rosetta. A white leaf feathered softly against the tan of the espresso.

Immaculate.

Sensational.

Coffee.