Month: May 2017
First, let me say this: Spiritual aloneness is not the same as loneliness. People very often communicate to me how lonely and isolated they feel on their spiritual pathway. The crazier the world becomes, the more “strung out” one can feel. Last week, someone wrote this to me:
“You talk a lot about the Light. I love the Light too. I thought that when I woke up a couple of years ago that in place of the old friends I had to leave behind or who left me behind because of my changes, I would find a lot of new friends who walked the same path as me. I remember as I was waking up that I felt more and more out of place and all alone when with my old friends. But two years later I actually feel more alone than ever before. I don’t understand why this should be. Can you explain it?”
What triggers you so easily to throw your “bombs” around
(a metaphor which indicates the nature of your verbal blasts
& all your gauche attempts at playing the part of cold iconoclast)
and make the heartless sounds you do, reacting scornfully to
anything originating from outside your hypernarrow field of view
(instead of looking in yourself and then exploring other worlds
which live beyond the multitude of books upon your shelf),
projecting all the darksome things that you have now become
— for instance, narcissist, derivative and thiefly plagiarising
plunderman who skulks in waiting rooms on doctors’ lists,
a dour old man who’s long forgotten when he last was kissed
by pretty things, a man who never sings or bares his truly soul
but simply plays the role of “I’m-in-charge-and-don’t-get-in-my-
hide-my-tiny-soul-from-view” — on those who you have envied
with your hotly jealous heart; and everywhere are strewed the
now-dead petals from the summer flowers you never bloomed
and all the books you have consumed can never save you now.
I am never far from tears.
They breed in lakes behind a dam
without a breeze-swept bridge to span.
The level rises till the tarn can stand
no longer calmly meekful as a mere;
but, bursting forth on unsuspicious friends,
she washes them, absolving them of fear.
I am now an open wound.
Like a fleshsome smile which never heals.
But that is just as it should be
or how could this man truly feel —
or be with wilting waxing worlds in tune?
and if the passion pus begins to ooze,
politely serve it with a silver spoon.
Conversation deep and strong seduces me to where I trulymadly do belong. Start talking to me deeply about life and love and multiverses; quarks, bosons and poetry verses; meter, clouds and demiurges; the properties of silver birches; history’s lies and phoney churches; the uselessness of body-searches; energies and wavelength-surges; the wonderment of all adverseness; the river’s mouth where dream converges; black holes, nebulae, whateverisbeneaththesurface; speak with me of all these things (and infinite more) and I promise you I will be yours… 🙂 ❤
Copyright ©2017 Alan Morrison