Ascending simplicity

It took some time, but they finally arrived, the thoughts leading me to hope again.

Here in the cold on a damp bench, water flows and ducks preen, and people walk past hand in hand.

I would gladly share this space, and yet I am gladly alone, I just am and they just are, and somewhere someone exists to sit beside me.

But now the flocks circle. And the traffic flows. Layers of sound like soft bandages wrapping my ears.

The birds. The cars. The voices. The laughter of children. Of men and women. Distant music. The rhythmic scraping of meandering soles on gravel paths.

I am trusting more and more in an ascending simplicity, spiralling out, perhaps, to a basic spiritual singularity.

Shall I name it? I do not dare.

For it exists between the soft wrappings of sound, in the spaces between things we can name.

Cold day. Damp bench. Alone.

It sits here, next to me.

…rhyming Homer with Homer…

Insight my mind has not brought!

Endless loops with doubt fraught!

Infinite thoughts pitifully caught!

Stagnation has only wrought rot!

Catharsis

I’m not reaching out. I’m not playing the victim. I’m not drowning in self-pity (though my knees are definitely wet).

I’m reaching inward. I am fighting. I may be drowning in tears of frustration, sadness, hope, joy. I am suffering, but I am not only suffering. I am healing. Slowly, methodically, not always patiently, always hopefully.

I am reaching deep within. There is a drain that needs unclogging, a blockage that needs removing. It doesn’t flow. It doesn’t flow.

What doesn’t?

It. My breath, my optimism, my confidence, my self-esteem, my thoughts, my life. In short: my essence. It is laboured, shallow, unclear, overgrown.

It doesn’t flow.

I reach inward to purge myself of the undergrowth, the overgrowth, the malignant growth. I pull out all the doubt, the fear, the regret, the neglect, the loathing, the contempt, the anger and hate and jealousy. I excise the insecurity, the arrogance, the apathy, the dregs of my soul.

I pull it all out and assess it honestly; laid out before me, splayed and dissected and arranged in subjective orders only my mind can fully comprehend, I reward myself the final judgment.

GUILTY!

For crimes against my person – death.

Now GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!

And after the stinking fetid shit – the rotting carcasses of my demons – is carted away,  buried in pages and posts and amateur journals, covered in virtual soils of obscurity and indifference, I can finally breathe. In, out, in, out, free, with ease, the soothing airs of health and optimism.