The ages of my heart

Thoughts are bubbling away, bubbling away in the cauldron that is my mind.
There are leaves on the surface, leaves from this autumn, from this fall. We fall, we spring back up.
Sometimes we get caught in the fall and forget to get up and rub our bruised knees. Keep walking, keep walking. If you’re caught staring at the mud, you’ll keep seeing mud until you lift your eyes.
There is no sun, no sun, no sun. I cannot see the sun. There is no way out of here. But then you turn your vision around a bit, and the sun stings your doubting eyes. The eyes shed tears that mirror the sun, the sun that wasn’t.

Thoughts are bubbling away in this whirlpool, second-rate jacuzzi that is my mind. It seems to have no on/off button. Some jacuzzis do. Why can’t I have one too?

It is summer, the air is hot and alive. The night is old and I am not.
The cactus in the yard is pricking away at my fingertips, and even if it hurts, I lick the blood and keep pricking my finger into it. It’s all my own doing, but I say to myself: “I’ll learn my lesson soon. I’m bound to.”
But we’re not bound to anything, are we? We’re only bound to what we want to be bound to.
That is the irony of it all.
We have so much power to let go, but with that very power, we hold on so tightly to the thoughts that make us feel bad.
A really good friend said, in one of his numerous moments of wisdom that I shall always be thankful for, “Saying that you want to believe, when you don’t -is like screaming you want to shut up.”

It is fall, the air is dull and gray. The night is young and I am not.
The tree outside my window is shedding its leaves with every blow. I too am shedding mine. Shedding so much skin that the one revealed has no time to heal. Open wounds, blood pumping itself into oblivion.
It’s like those scabs on your legs when you’re a kid. You don’t want to have any signs left on your legs, but you keep scratching the scabs, eager for them to heal faster, to see what the situation is underneath.

It is winter, the air is a dead dagger. The night is everywhere, and I am nowhere to be found.
The lights of the supermarket make shadows on the wall, moving paintings of light. There is no clock to be heard in the room, but my own heart keeps me awake, continuously announcing the passing of air from the outside in. From the inside out. Such a waste, such an absurd process. Or is it?


About Mara Ambrosie

"I contain multitudes" W. Whitman. *poză de
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