The Weight of Feeling

It is a lonely thing, to feel.

To feel the weight of the world fall heavy on weak, slumped shoulders; the beautiful weight of mouths to feed and hearts to love.

How can a man keep his head up when life is so damn full of sorrows and pains?   How does a man keep moving when it hurts to live?  When every moment is a burden – another source of guilt and grief?

How can he escape the memories and the fears; of damnation and condemnation, of failures and fuckups – when he is haunted by the dogged pursuit of the Southern Hound, held captive within his over-active mind; how can he escape?  How can he fight an enemy who lives within?  How can he believe when faith has been stolen from him, when his capacity for belief has been acid-burned from his mind?

His soul is ash, his hope’s dissolved within the tonic his culture’s hubris; “pursuit of happiness” his Lilly-white ass.

He rages when all he wants to do is sleep.  He loathes when he longs with all his being to love and be loved.  He is a dead-man walking, eaten by his own sad zombie self.

What does it have to hurt so fucking much?


Alone and Naked in the Light

I’ve lost the language I’ve always known; so much of my faith is unintelligible to me now. Its phrases, concepts and poetry just confuse me. I feel muted. At a loss for words I never knew I had lost. A mind that craves certainty is left gasping, choking on its fears, grasping for any kind of lifeline. I am left groping in the realms of mystery and ambiguity; swimming, drowning in the sea of the primordial wherefore.


My mind has failed me. I melt upon the freezing cobblestones, naked in the dark light, alone before the maw. I need something deeper, something more interconnected. More holistic, natural and earthy.


I grew up denouncing the mystics and pagans, turning an ignorantly blind eye to my own rationalistic biblicism. We huddled in the barn, terrified of the Lion and we missed-out on the joys of that Far Country. I’m tired of missing out, of fearing. I wanna live, dammit.


For death lives in me and I am dead on the vine, a misbegotten corpse hung in the noose of belief, burning up before the sullen, scalding glare of the light. I breath ash, I sweat blood, I move myself inexorably deeper into the eternal quicksand.


I lie squashed beneath the heels of so many feet, a godforsaken bug, broken and alone in my asphalt hell.


(featured image source)

Depression, Uncategorized

Child of the Night

She is a child of the night, blanketed by the darkness and lit by the eerie glow of the quarter moon. Her skin glows faintly in the creeping blackness, her form is still; silent, waiting. Her pale eyes smolder in the dusk and fog, perceiving shapes and forms, pathways, destinations and intents. She is at home in the dun silence, padding down hidden trails; every step halting and sure. She sees with blindness; perceiving faint whiffs of air, noting slight eddies of scents as they tangle through the air. She discerns faint nuances of thought, swirls in the heady, erotic, intoxicating dance of ideas – geneses begetting geneses. Hers is a gnosis roughly earned.

The darkness is her only friend, the trackless paths her highway and despondent hope her reality.

She resonates with heroic anti-heroes, ingloriously bastard misfits, the tortured souls who fight to fight for good and lose. Whose motives are never pure, whose means are always suspect, who find themselves drawn to the muck, to the murk, to the dirt of life. Who seek to do good, to be noble, to pursue justice, but who cannot for want of sound breeding. She is outcast.

She is compelled by the eyes of the owl, the night-hunting omen of death; she is awed by the intelligent savagery of the wolf-pack; she is comforted by the mournful sadness of the raven and excited by the vicious fury of the winged raptors. She is a huntress, a night-walker, a nightmare to demons.

She is paradoxically most certain in the midst of doubt’s calm and most anxiously doubtful in the heady, tumultuous sea of certitude. Questions haunt her steps; enigmas dog her paths. Her way is paradox. She lives to death and dies to life. Mystery is her only constant.

The darkness is her only friend, the trackless paths her highway and despondent hope her reality.

She is sceadugenga.