Spiritual Questions

I have two questions for you. Let’s say you are somewhere and meet someone who professes to be a Christian and you have his or her complete attention. (A) What will you say to that person if you believe they are really listening to you? In addition (B) What experience(s) have you had that would color your comments?

The Canvas

I wake up from what appears to be a nightmare
Only to realize that it is life imitating art—
My life the canvas upon which these vials of medicine are spilled.

“I feel just fine,” I tell myself in the mirror.
I look and act like my normal self.
Hah! Now that’s a good word—normal—
A word that has lost all significance in my life.

There really is no need to continue with all of these pills.
Everything is in control, and their effect only dulls my senses.
So what if I stop? Who is to know?
I desperately need that clarity stolen by these cunning capsules.

The peaks and valleys come back with a vengeance.
The highs I desire—that cheap thrill ride of ecstasy
That seems to last forever—the clarity is back,
And the canvas is bright with colors once again.

Yet, I know in my heart where everything will ultimately lead.
The long and twisted road toward that downward spiral,
Slow and insidious at first, then slamming into my face—
Immediately life no longer has any meaning,
And the clarity so brazenly pursued goes up in a flash.

Too soon I pay the price—the canvas melts before my eyes.
Instead, only a numbing sensation filled solely with shades of gray.
How deep will I sink this time? How long will I let it continue?
Surely, another high is just around the corner—can I make it ‘til then?

I know this vicious cycle all to well—my own personal crash and burn.
There never is another summit lurking when I need it,
Only the dark void that replaces all life.
Too late to admit that these pills paint my canvas whether I like it or not.

So, my choice is to escape from this trail of meds and experience all that life has to offer.
And that leaves me with only one option: to take the brightly-colored canvas
Along with the ultimate death grip I know will come my way—My canvas is blank.©2007

Solitude

Why is it that I rejoice in solitude during the light of the day,
But find a deep abyss—that chasm—in the dark of the evening?
I love living alone, doing what I want, when I want,
Yet I crave the intimacies that come with the night.

I miss the little things that I used to take for granted:
The laughter, the tears, but most of all the touching.
I even miss the arguments—at least there was someone.
They say loving with all your heart and then getting it ripped out
Can be the best thing to happen—at least you know you’re alive.

I don’t miss the eggshells I so carefully tip-toed around;
I don’t miss the compromises that weren’t really compromises
(How can they be when you just give in to let her have her way?)
And I don’t miss the sublime intent of deception, however protested it was.

There is joy and peace in solitude.
There is contentment in the aloneness of it all.
Yet the smattering, while ever intermittent, moments of loneliness creep in
Like that thief in the night, shattering the illusion of perfection.

They say that time heals the wounds that bind you,
Yet still I wait.
Oh, the absoluteness of grief and pain have subsided,
And the abject anger and resentment have even begun to fade.

I wait for the day when there are no memories to evoke the emotion,
No snippets of visions or songs that bring about this past.
Yet it has wisely been said that those who do not remember history
Are doomed to repeat it again.

I have no illusions of repetition—good or bad—the solitude outweighs
All of the reasons why there was a sharing of space to begin with.
The desires I miss are becoming supplanted by interests that occupy myself alone.
I amaze myself at what I’ve accomplished on this holy ground of solitude.

Soon there will come a time of grace, that unspeakable space of rest,
When I know that all will be right, and I discover there is nothing missing
Except from what I choose to exclude—the choice intended rather than a by-product.
Yes, this sanctity of space—this wholeness of one—is my beginning of life. ©2007