You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August 2014.

 

Can you please find me?
I lost myself
I don’t know when it happened
Nobody told me
I may have been gone for a long time
What was I wearing?
I don’t remember
Was I awake, asleep?
No memory
Where was I when I got lost?
I must have been alone
I am not sure what I look like
The image is now blurry
Can you find me?
I used to laugh
Can you hear me?
My feet walked and walked
Maybe there are traces still?
I had dreams
Maybe yours were the same?
I had love in my heart
Perhaps you can hear it beating somewhere?
Please listen
Shhhh
I lost myself
I don’t know how
Maybe I ran away?
If you see me, let me know
I will recognize your voice
I do remember that I love you.

For David

Andrew Wyeth - Wind from the Sea, 1947

Art: Andrew Wyeth

 

 

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What to pack when you are leaving with no hope of return?

What to leave behind for others to pick?

How much can I carry?

How much do I need?

Do I say good bye?

To whom?

A list flutters in a corner of the mind?

“My suitcase holds:

love

compassion & empathy

tolerance

my father’s love on a gold chain

my mother’s love in every cell of my body

hope

space for the unknown

freedom.”

Where do I deposit it?

How long till the whistle blows?

I wait.

 

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Mythology-Hell-Bosch-Garden-of-Earthly-Delights-Hell-21

The man had been sitting alone in his room for a long time. It could have been days. He lost track, frozen to the spot by a horrifying vision. It came to him one morning, piercingĀ his mind like a hot needle, and he could not move ever since. It had been forming for some time, a macabre puzzle made of fragments of nightmares, and now with the final piece in place, it paralyzed him. It left no hope, no possibility of a different outcome, all the options were out. For a brief moment he wondered if anyone else has been struck with this terrible thought, if panicked messages were flickering across the globe. But he knew he didn’t care, it did not matter. It was done. He turned to the window and waited.

They found him a few days later. Sitting in his chair, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Outside the window the last sunset spilled crimson shadows.

Christ'sDescentIntoHell

Art: Hieronymus Bosch