Hot

A low base bleeds out of the monitor, trickles out across the crowd. Eager am I for this baptism of soul, such complete envelopment.
The drums next, stomping their dull fury. The body-hollowing beats enter me entirely, and I live only as they allow. They are air of lung, growl of belly, beat of heart. Let them be merciful; if they stop, I die.
Scalded fingers over black frets dance. Ear tickled and excited, I am no longer my own. The music takes. Me.
The hot smell of human is everywhere, but we are far and beyond. Sweat runs down the many and one who are music, are me, are everything and nothing.

This is how I am not myself.

It's beautiful.

Reality

Kinda weird to come back down. Or maybe just over, back into the niche that I seem to fill oh-so-much better. Which, admittedly, is frustrating on a few different levels, but mostly just in the fact that, subconsciously, I myself seem to be the biggest advocate for this role - probably to preserve the sense of security (however false) it provides. But playing it safe isn't always a good thing, especially when the concept of safety is so tipsy anyway. I am okay with where I am now, though I don't think it's a particularly eternal state of being.

I don't really know what to call the emotion I've been so taken with of late. Contentment originated in one far deep spot, and sort of permeated the rest of my life. I think I've kind of lost sight of the starting point, but somehow I'm not sad. Dead poets speak with tongues of lovers, and the soft vibrations of steel strings over a hollow body warm my belly.

There was an excitement - which was fun - an anxiety - which served as a reminder that I can still feel wholly - and now a calm - which is good for what it is and what I guess I need it to be.

It's painfully hard, though, for me to come to terms with the concept that the method of connecting with people isn't something that I'm going to discover by burrowing further into myself. Up until now, that seemed like a perfectly viable coping strategy; When the fragile, fragile people all around are so close to breaking, it's easy to duck down behind a barricade of consciousness and give them exactly what they ask for, nothing more or less. But what happens when what they ask for has been with you so long, it's almost a part of you? What happens when they ask you to tear down the wall?

I'm struck a little bit by the irony that I was conceived on November 9th.

Also, I take some twisted comfort in knowing that Pink Floyd understands.

I suppose it has to come down sometime, huh?

Memory

So so so so happy.

:)

Prophecy

On Love
"When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep,
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, 'God is in my heart,' but rather, 'I am in the heart of God.'
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night,
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips."
-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet