A thousanth cry
by stein forster
I kid you not. I will myself. Force myself. Pick the dead weight of a confused man up off the floor to write this. To start something. Anything that may somehow, out of a life of conspired thoughts and meaning devilled by a gene misplaced, deliver the beginning of hope. A speck of understanding to maybe, just maybe roll itself into something bigger than itself. Something bigger than me. Something that speaks to me when I look in the mirror. Please I ask myself. I need your help. Please.
Easter Sunday, and the dogs are knackered. Spread loose and slow groany as I cry a thousanth cry. Its beyond pathetic. I know that. But its real. Its been real for too long. And with no language to counter its been left to linger and fester til my infected meaning eats itself up. Eats itself to nothing. To a beginning. To……?
My boys are with their Mum doing the Sunday lunch. My call for them to feel family. I won’t see them. Let them feel the unity of the day. As much as thats possible. As much as that hurts.
Amongst my forest of black trees and stumps that crackle with heat I am still mourning her. Not the boys Mum. The lady who said no. Her eyes afar to places she knows. Places of dark grace to her. Places I cannot see. I try to read them. I’m good at that. Thought I was. She’s got me nutted. All the right words. The silence of a bears den. Bar the hot slow breath of an untold story. What happenned? What the fuck happened?
I confused her so. All along. I wasn’t there. i couldnt be there. Truly there. I was scared of love. Look what it had done. Divorce just a week ago. New blokes and children hurt with templates of pain over a past still living. Rife with subtexts, power, subversion. Ripe with undercurrents and swirls of undermining intelligence. All born from pain. Pain.
She witnessed it all as I struggled to be male. No money or job. A day to day existence of staying just emotionally alive to appear normal. Stressed but normal. Passionate yet flighty. Wagtail shake beauty too delicate to land..
Strong enough to not buckle and die. Not ready enough to touch the sky.
She smiles at me anyway. We do blues and laugh. I tender to her needs as much as i need her tender. Shes not my type. That tugs at me long. Im sure it shows with my comments and inflections. Yet she is. We compliment by contrast with evolving interests. I thought.
My actions are needy. Loving too. I want her touch, her breath in my ear as I watch her sleep the most beautiful divine portrait i fear.
She’s taught me. My gift from above. She allowed me to be open to love. I changed my ways. But still spoke with haze. In my heart I was there. A future to care. I just couldn’t shake the shackles of the past. With ex’s and men in my ear with disgust. I looked like a luckless lad with a bust. Obscured by a life of the un-Dane. Obscured and sanctioned by the brain fed the oily slick of diesel wine.
My mind so intense. Lost in my head. Too much in my life to handle. Strung out brain, fence post strain. So steeped in mud with a weekly thud.
My life. Joseph’s Campbell’s Journey. Still is. Highest Leverage for me. Going down. Thinking up. Thinking down. Going up.
Giving up. Giving in. Giving back to the “sin.”
Surrender the card I draw from the Sun. On my way to profess to her. Deluded, I embrace. She’s gone. Last touch of the lingering lace.
A soft cheek kiss. Bliss dulled and culled by destinies veil.
I didn’t see it coming she stopped.