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Library: The Sound of Falling Rain

Books

Author: merja
Date:Mar 27 2007

There was a stranger who met me on the path; unafraid, meeting my needs, this
stranger gave gifts without asking a single ting in return (that is beyond
normal respect).

To use language of the Dream Realm would not describe the feelings evacuating
from within a strange place, beyond the inner reaches of my heart. To take a
string and follow it around a corner, I could not have been more pleased with
the sensation I felt as life walked beside me.

So it is with regret that I stand here now, before the looming gates of my
dark heart.

Do I dare to look at that shrivelled mummy so long ago evacuated? Do I, as
Yogonanda suggests, become a capable gardener and cultivate the mind garden,
the rose of the heart?

Or do I choose to remain to remain in the same cycles of pasts, lost and
revelling in the miserable bowels of mental disorder? Like an addict, lunging
for the coke of emotional chaos, stealing joy from a world of people who have
plenty to share and would willingly have shared. Yet I would revel in the
taking, forceful, aggressive, controlling in this misguided belief that I am
special with some innate birthright.

Thus allowing ego to take hold of my soul.


I am listening to Joy Shannon's song "After You" which is not yet published.
Your wounding words do more than hurt, like the procedure we use called
debridement, where we scrape off old, dying tissue, the infectious cells, or
cut away pieces of the flesh to save or stimulate healing of healthier flesh.


I am not idly standing by watching the fucking universe tell me how to live,
or waiting to find that juvenile dream of a man who can meet and surpass. But
I do refuse to love one-sided.

Whoever spoke of love, was it me? Was it the demon that lies in my mind
taunting me that I will never again experience that ambrosia within my life?
Was it the ugly harpy that would tear my hair, my face, my heart and soul and
tell me that it's ok to be out of control?

Is some pyschological disorder that tells me with each sad song that I allow
to torture my mind in control of my life?


Is there ever going to be a chance that I see the world as it really is. The
here, the now. Without thinking too much? Without the superficial desire of a
senseual pleasure?

Will I ever care for myself?

Is it truly that difficult? what is wrong me that I cannot to this day find
within my joy beauty? Rather, an affliction where the green eyes are only
beautiful when bloodshot and tearworn?

I've set the intake for Wednesday at 1330 EST. I do yearn for control you
know. I'm not saying that this was the one.
 I don't need "the one." Not really, it's just a superficial desire.

I do believe that Fate guides us in life. I do believe all that has been done,
no matter how horrible our heart the Guide, there is a light to be found.

This candle is the light we carry in our hearts, when we choose to be
survivors. And I am definitely, if nothing else positively bent, I am a
survivor. I want to live. It is that simple.

I'm really not asking for anything, no sense of relief, no sense of guilt, or
shame, submission, desire.

I would love to love. But I cannot at this time love without jealousy and
pain.

If I am so stubborn, slow, and hard-headed, then I will learn the hard way.

You cannot teach a pupil who will not listen. You cannot motivate a person who
is not intrisically so.

I cannot push any man into my arms. Any self-respecting individual will not
allow himself to be forced into anything. And I wouldn't ask for anything
less.

Maybe this is the only way I will ever learn to take things at face value, and
to appreciate what little I do have.

I'm about to push away my family and friends again. Everyone. Put on a facade,
and delve into a Stygian empire.

Where I am a princess.

That is why I am here now. Writing this, hoping you would read it. Hoping you
would stay at that distance to my mind.

To be the one who said the words I wanted to hear before. Without force.

And my hopes are dashingly foolish. And I fall again into the abyss of feeling
shame for having wanton, implacable reasoning, in my age and day.

And you, who are you? Who are you to me? Your relevance has such little
rational meaning, your mind an ocean living in a far away place that I can
only hope to see, unless I change.

Unless I change. Opening this wound and scraping away the necrosis.

I am so strongly yearning for that dream, that I cannot remain sane when I
catch it's slightest whiff.

And that was I strive now to prevent. Damages have been done, and I'm through
fighting myself.


Books