the man who falls (2)

Why do we fall?
So that we learn to pick ourselves up again!

Don't be afraid I have fallen into a darker place and climbed out again. I wont drop you. I promise.

I fall in love and I am broken by it

I fall apart and love reassembles me

I fall asleep and drown in my dreams

I fall into a dream and loose it when I wake

I fall out of bed

I fall

and I get up again

your finger prints are all over me

Sell your books, return your clothes,
erase everything of you from my room:
the love letters you wrote to me,
the scent of your perfume on my bed sheets,
the writing you left on my wall -
all of them are gone
but your fingerprints are all over me
and still it's your voice I hear when I sleep
your face I see when I close my eyes
your name that echoes.
It's your heart I hear beating
and your lips I long to kiss.

Who is the man who falls?

Why do we fall? How do we get up again? How do we forget the nightmare pain of impact? Why do we fall again?

All I remember is that I am falling - I have been for almost an eternity. The ghosts of someone else's dream surround me as a plummet towards what must be hell.

I am faceless. I am nameless. I suffer someone else's punishment am gulty of someone else's crimes.

I want to forget to never wake again. I want to stay there...
there, in the dark - where there's nothing
to keep me in or keep me out

I want to forget - to fall...
never wake again
I want to stay there...
there in the dark

Falling always falling
always broken by the fall

Why do we fall? How do we get up again? How do we forget the nightmare pain of impact? Why do we fall again?

We learn to get up again
We learn to forget
We learn to make our faces new each morning - to remember our smiles

And we become something else

I had a name - but it is forgotten
I had a life - but I deny it now
I ignore the people I once called friends
I pass by the places that used to be home
I pretend I am elsewhere - in someone else's life, someone else's nightmare - feeling someone else's pain ... but it is my own.

Forgetfulness is my mask

on

When love fails we do not. We go on - not because we want to; not because we have to; not because we should; but because we go on. Once born there is no going back - we are compelled onward towards the nothing with no choice but to go on

Wrong turn (monologue)

Have you ever felt that you've taken a wrong turn. I can hear the world calling me and I can see the answer it needs me to give but I can't becuase I'm stuck. I have become what I despise. I have become the opposite of myself, my negative image. I stay within - afraid to go outside. Afraid to be with others. Afraid to be alone. I am a ghost yet still living. I am a shape. I used to be human. I used to have a purpose but now I have none.

My dreams are dead. My dreams are gone. My sleep is empty. Devoid. Null. What ever I was I no longer am.

Thoughts on "belonging"

Belonging, Destiny and Difference

When I think about belonging somewhere two things come to mind. That I'm supposed to be somewhere else - that my destiny is elsewhere. And second that I am so different and so alone that I don't belong here. It's the ultimate question "why I am here?" "Why don't I fit?" "Where should I be and who should I be with?"

There's a story from the Old Testament about a woman called Ruth. She married an Israelite but was from another nation. Her husband dies before they have any children and her mother-in-law asked her leave. But Ruth replies: "Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the LORD deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me." (Ruth 1:16-17 NIV) This is how we are supposed to assimilate - to make ourselves belong where we are different.

But it is our sense of belonging forms a part of our identity. Along with our memories and our dreams it helps constitute a sense of Self - it establishes our story. It answers all the questions: "Where do you come from?"; "What do you do?"; "What's your name?"; "Do you drink coffee?"; "Do you believe in... ?"

I've never belonged. I've always been the shoe that didn't fit. The clown at the funeral. The sober one at the party. I've always felt the pressure to belong but I've never really wanted to - my alterity makes me ... disturbing to 'normal' people. Out here there are no rules or at least the rules the others live by don't apply. I didn't experience empathy from other people until my twenties. even among my "friends" & girlfriends, nobody wanted to understand me or why I did was not the same. I felt isolated and nobody could understand what made me feel this way. I looked the same. I spoke the same language. But I would not be Ruth among the Israelites - their god is not mine, our language is theirs and not mine, their music, their sports, their history, their ambitions, their politics - none of them mine.

It took me a long time, a very long time to consider that I might be in a position of power that by being an Outsider I have choices that no one else would have to make. I would have to ask myself questions that no-one else has to ask.

It's these things, these questions that make us feel we belong. It's what we take for granted. What we expect, assume and demand

anesthetic

You were my anesthetic,
I numbed the world with you.
I tasted nothing from your lips,
feel nothing form your hands.
Felt nothing.
I vaccinated myself with you -
broke myself upon you.
You were my substitute for lust,
my inoculation against love.

When I close my eyes I still see your face
even when I sleep the emptiness stinks of you
but there's nothing interesting about you
nothing beautiful,
nothing.

In my dreams I watch you cross the darkness,
dragging your fingers like hypodermic needles on my skin,
crawling like a spider on my body,
using your teeth on my lips.

my sleep is stained with you
it stinks of your cologne,
of your breathe,
of your jealousy
and it bores me.
The familiarity bores.
I feel nothing when I dream of you. Nothing when I think of you.
Nothing ...
not even contempt.