isolation

292: Sorrow’s Voice

| Aspergers Girls

Sorrow’s Voice

Pain and tears cometh.

I cry out to the bender of the universe. I cry out to the seamstress of sky.

I weep: Mold me. Bleed me. Cast me into burning flame and set me into true form.

Cloth turned clay.

I play a game of tag, the players joy and sorrow.

There isn’t in between, only the two runners moving in and out like threads sewn through a tattered tired quilt: neither golden nor true.

I search for the centerfold, the space in the middle, where happiness and sadness meet, where time stops and in the stillness I am.

And I ask: Who is this voice that screams? And who brings this voice upon me? Am I not perfection undone and let out to dry? Am I not food for the wolves? Am I not set in the open for the scavengers and decomposers; set here to bleed into another for food or purpose. If not, then what do I be?

I climb the mountains in my mind, weeping for justice, for solitude, for rest for the weariness that tethers me; anchored to the buoy of change, at the mercy of waves. A fisherman lost, and battling the ocean tides by slipping away onto an imaginary land of refuge.

A dichotomy split in half. Here, but not here. Gone, but not gone. Stepping out, only to find I have stepped in.

For I am suffocated beneath the storms of want and wane, buried beneath the circumvented hope life brings. Like some ageless wine, I sit at the bottom of barrel, forgotten in the kennel of sorrow’s breeding.

I am. I breathe. I move.

Hello, I shout. Hello from below.

Come and find me sweet winged creature, come and pour the substance of you into me, like the riches into the cave, place your treasure here, and I shall shelter your prize like no other. Always you shall return, to this place where I glisten for you alone, and here you will come again, in flesh and blood to find me, still waiting, your treasure about, untouched, unbroken.

For I am your worthy servant of destitute, though riches flourish about me, buried as I be beneath the layers of this whimsical dance.

And a voice calls out:

“Can you not feel their very footsteps upon your soul? Can  you not look up and see that where you thought you were upright upon the earth, witness to sky, that you are neither alive nor dead, but scurrying in stillness beneath the gravestone, your only view the droplets of dirt turned over by passerby?”

“Can you not see you were meant to dance above, but you lay below, torn open, and left to die?”

“And who are the guests you call forth? Who do you invite when the screaming all but fails? But two victimless victims, of both your calling and circumstance? Hello, sweet substance of me. Hello, sweet hell of the valley, and limb of mind, you sing.”

“I say to you: Branch out into me, into completion, and tether your soul upon the twilight of remorse. Mourn for the distant wants that haunt you and turn you, churning you like giant’s butter, craved for your softness alone, and salted with the tears of divine. Bleed, I tell you, your wine upon me, your longings twisted into the glass-eye that sees from nowhere to nothing. Eat, I say, like the scavenger you be, eat away at self, until what is left is the emptiness you are. Softly come then, reformed and aching, and slip through my hand like silky milk, land upon my finger, weed from the forest turned ringlet. I am waiting, too. For this joy of you.”

“As you be the sorrow at my side. You be the longing and ache of my heart whole. You be this shadow you claim to see. You are my haunting, my wanting, my very tormenter. What you think is of you, is of me, what you think is of me, is of you. When you ache, I ache elsewhere in the chamber of my mind, if mind I be. I ache in the substance of my soul, if soul I had. I ache in my loin of invisibility, straight down to the center of my very chamber, the beats torn open in rhythm to your calling, your need.”

“I am the one split; I am the one broken; I am the one trampled upon beneath grave. I am the one suffocated. I am the one who accepts pounding fist and guards the greedless treasure. I am the one here, still standing in hope, though I be ripped asunder. I am the one blanketed in cause so heavy my essence bleeds and bends into itself, so that what I carry is indistinguishable from that which you harbor.”

“Can you not see the veil is broken, that which existed between you and me, disintegrated with the coming of time, a passage way split and repurposed, so that all trails lead to us? Can you not see I am both your cause and your victim? Both you. You have made me so. You have molded me with self. You have twisted me, this cloth and clay, intermingled into form I know not.”

“And then the tide of joy comes, and I am left dancing on a wave of nothingness, for beneath this wave lies the depths of your sorrow waiting. And still you see this sorrow as the black depths, while I see the ocean as the beauty. Still you see the wave of all that is, when I see the touch of a droplet, so small and obsolete that a passerby would skim you as one skims the dew. For you are not this surface, you are not this wave. You are not even the depths. You are beneath the depths. Your outcries formed into shape, and voice your beauty. Your outstretched truth the echo of true joy.”

“Can you not see your happiness belongs nowhere, is nowhere, feeds no one, but that your sorrow, your true sorrow, at the depths of you, has transformed into gold, into the very treasure you so guard? Why do you run from such treasure and beauty? Why do you whip yourself, and in return whip me, my mistress of hope? Take me into you, my light, my want, my longing, my deep penetrating desire embrace, and feed upon me and my truth”

“Like a white rabbit pour your flesh upon me and embrace my tenderness. Take me into you and rise untarnished, in your goodness and righteousness.”

“Take me, I sing. I call not outside of self, but inside of self, my voice unspoken and formed through your very pain. Take me, the voiceless voice calls out. For you form me with your tears, you call me forth with your fallen, broken spirit, you bleed me out, your shaking voice rising above the waves. You free me like no other. You enchant me. You testify, and chains are broken. Feed not upon the deep of what quakes beneath. Feed upon me, and I in turn, I shall feed upon you, my sweet cherished one.”

window to sky

272: To Be Home

| Aspergers Girls

It has been said that people who have Aspergers are deep thinkers and poets. I think for me this is a definite truth.

Sometimes I just sit and write whatever pours out of me….well often I do. I see pictures and images, and see a story created in my mind, and I also hear the words. I feel the rhythm of each word and syllable. It is smooth, unless I write the “wrong” word, and then I feel a huge stop, or barrier in the whole of me. This selection I wrote this morning in about fifteen minute, or however long it took to type. It is, to me, the longing for connection, for another, for the missing piece to be filled, for the agape of the creator or completion of the lover, though lover in essence is not completion. It is the heart’s cry to crawl out of the illusion of one and the isolation of desired recognition, the want to be seen and to be unified and brought back to the place of whole. To be blanketed in everlasting love. To be home.

Today I have this monster of angst and unsettled sensation stirring and grumbling inside of me. Like an emptied stomach craving a food it cannot imagine, cannot picture, cannot name. Only he roars nonetheless, told by another unidentified form that he is hungry, though he knows not the essence or meaning of hunger.

Today I have the demon of demise wrapped upon me, sitting on my lap unopened and uncared for, his hauntingly spirit enticing my delight. I long to reach into the unopened and explore, but know too well the finger shall be ripped and torn, and I, left to bleed, will weep for what was touched without end.

Today I snore in silence, my trumpeting sounds of slumber unheard, and thusly unmatched, unconquered and unquenched. I am territory that lays barren, untraveled and unclaimed. I wait, this land I am, for victim to unravel and unfold upon me; so I may, too, unravel and unfold and sleep beside, a spoon to spoon, a treasure to hold and keep; until the sun comes and I am but shadow upon shadow, a vision of myself in the coming light.

Today I spawn and spin, dazzled by your substance, which I cannot touch or breathe, but in your name. And words alone do not fill me, only deplete, so I am hallowed once more, deeper and deeper into self with only your thought. I cannot dance with you; I cannot bend myself into the latitude or longitude of where you stand. Though my desire deceives me, I wish upon the star of you like no other, and long with every scaffold of my lingering heart to climb upon you and feel the ever pounding of your being.

Today you are a vision dressed in the white of memory, unreachable and distinguished, high upon high; so distant that the thought of you still flies with broken wing to find where you begin. I cannot think upon you without being pulled back and hidden behind a barrier. I cannot envision you without seeing the bleakness and black and torrential rain. All about the dancing birds sing, and yet their calls are as the demon’s last meal, broken into bones and crushed in misery of the masses.

Today I scale the mountain of my own desire and stand face-to-face with what I have thusly named you. And how you stare at me through a tunnel within a tunnel, carved out of stone of the Gods. I hear them calling you back to them, and yet I remain screaming, as if my name, my place, my stance could pull you back against the darkness that pulls your thicker and thicker into the spinning weight of now.

Today no name, no wish, no answer is found, because all about you have climaxed and advanced, beyond the space of my imagined time. You are but whisper, hidden ghost between the sheets and layered curtains of nonexistence. You haunt me with your beauty and majestic ways; you entice me time and time again, an ocean rising at the peak of me, my lady parts, and then departing like a serpent eating through my soul. My organs bleed, my skin opens, your darkness enters and feeds again, and I am left less victim than willing participant in the horror that seems home.

Today I beseech you king of mastery, the pillar of my mind that falls as domino sweetly planned, the steep and valley set upon a table for child’s play. Knock me down, one by one, a mountain crumbled upon itself, the pieces separate but together, clanging and tumbling in a makeshift play created by the creator. Watch as the stumbling begins, as the one upon the next beats down to the final destiny of end.

For Today, at the end point you shall find me. The last to be fallen. The last alone. The singular hitting stone, when all else hit each other. Oh to be the starting point, the first, the beginning touched by your grazing hand. Though slapped, and forgotten and used for your design only, to still be shaken by your very hand, least the last dying domino in a line of soldiers forgotten.

Today, I bid you farewell, buried beneath the whole of me, siphoned and forgotten; and with each goodbye that comes and goes, resurfaces like the endless tides, I bid again, in dying breath; my last words the echo of my discernment wept and lost, my judgment buried, that which rests beneath shadow of hope, the darkened space forgotten where dreams die in the dungeon of invisible.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A short poem written before the previous selection, this morning; my first attempt to remove the angst inside. This is about confusion of emotions, of the confusion of being, of the not wanting to be seen and shaped by others as something I am not. It is about physical and mental pain. Before today, I didn’t say what my writing is supposed to be about. I think it is beneficial for the reader to take what they want from words and leave the rest. But for some reason, I needed to explain today. I don’t know why. I just do. Perhaps to make this life seem more real, and you more connected to me. I haven’t edited any part of this or changed it. It is a poem of thoughts and processing.

I’m on my couch, laptop in lap, a redundancy

I’m on the couch, hands hurting, as they do, with the onset of any suspicion

The body is up to something, some little bug or minor fixing

And thusly I am made captive to the lingering pain

Not right, not on, not balanced, and my frail substance bleeds

Calling out for the memory of form

The memory of childhood wholeness

I’m on the couch, and the clock ticks, his neighbor black fridge hums

A scent carries from somewhere and everywhere

Something stale, something clean, something cooked

Scraping of my bones matches the pale scraping of my eyes

As the lashes clash and sting, their delight in the dancing dust

I am a vision to behold onto myself

When all about the world spins and I am left as prisoner freed

On tiny island

Where river no longer rushes through, but salt of air tears in between the blue

Feed me your sanity

Feed my your joy

Pour the essence of what is right and just into the soul of me

I cry out to the universal prose

The poet that hides inside the caverns of my hallowed grave of sorrow

Chase me down to the corners where I weep

Come find me, lost and barren

The babe of my youth sucked out with the tentacles of divine crucified

By hungry mouths that feed off of pain and badgered sorrow

I am but child fed upon by the worldly ways

Nibbled piece by piece

Dissected and set out to dry in chunks of unsettled misery

And you, are victim doubled

Your shattered dreams set upon the wind

As if the substance of nothing will blow back to you

In the absence of time

For there is nothing good

Nothing real

But the vision of the love I carry

And too, you needle this out of me

Siphon upon serpent siphon

And sting me once again

With the wicked ways of me

Tear down your mirror

Tear down this reflection you pounce upon me

Chisel me whole again

Excavate my ruins

Bring me out of the hidden mass

And revere, behold, befuddled me

Make me into the man I am

Before turning me into the demon you demand

——–

Samantha Craft, December 2012

Post 242: Still, I Walk On

| Aspergers Girls

Dear Angels,

I don’t think I was meant for this earth. My heart is too big and aches too much.

I try to pull myself out of sadness but my efforts are to no avail.

I let go.

I let God.

I try and try.

I sit in emptiness and silence.

I sit in prayer.

I hope and wish and dream.

I try once more.

While I am not tough, I recognize I am brave.

I stand acutely aware of the dangers of life and the inevitability of dying. Change terrifies me, yet my very existence is encompassed by constant change. Still I walk on.

I am bombarded by my mind’s connections, the branching out of complex thoughts in order to make some sense of concepts and happenings. My thoughts, a web, upon a web, upon a web, spinning out exponentially and infinitely with no end, exhaust me. Still I walk on.

The only way to stop the thoughts is to distract. And while the thoughts are endless, the distractions are finite, and have a built-in ability to expire. Expiration leaves me weary and more fearful. The expiration of distraction, too, becomes a fear. Still I walk on.

My empathy depletes my energy sources. With the onset of pain or tragedy, I am left spinning in emotions, uncertain of how to assist, and where to start in the process of uncovering all the information buried beneath layer upon layer of soul-tears. One event turns and quickly bleeds into another—a river of sorts surging and bursting at the bed’s seams and pounding upon terrain after terrain, forging new ground and new thought. Still I walk on.

I see the eyes of the victims of life, hollow, afraid, alone. I understand isolation is a disease of our time, as well as a lingering disconnection. Still I walk on.

Everywhere is poison: food, medicines, waters, earth, animals, man, filled with poison.  Poison as substance and poison as thought. Still I walk on.

I long to sprout wings and hover above, to glide and bless the suffering. I long to weave magic, to soothe and comfort. I long to place a salve of love and salvation across humanity. Still I walk on.

I don’t know where to place my angst, my fear, my pain. And I refuse to pretend life is easy and happy. I question and question: Can I be light and be sad? Can I be light and be confused? Can I be light crying from within the darkness? Still I walk on.

I beg in confusion, and in my absence of vigor and vitality, depleted and drained, I weep. “Give them hope and strength. Show this world, so long emptied of hope a vision, a sign, a destiny. Point us to the path of light.”

And though my feet our weary and my head heavy, still I walk on

With lantern in hand, with angels at my side, I stand motionless, a light to the path, as still, I walk on.

Post 239: I Don’t Know You

| Aspergers Girls

I don’t know you.

I think I do, but I don’t.

There is so much about you unspoken, unseen, untouched.

And I long to reach these places,

to dip inside you with the full of me,

with every inch of my being and penetrate the ocean that is you,

the one that rises and falls,

ebbs and flows within.

You see, you touch me, you reach, you penetrate,

you dive, you dip,

you even fall into me.

I feel you plunge.

I feel your soul purge,

and your tears,

I catch them,

and my ocean is fed.

I am filled.

I am chosen.

I am one with the essence of your waters.

Until you wake, and look upon me,

and do not know me,

do not choose me,

do not wish me to be the one to carry your dreams.

And you run, like the weather runs in season’s change,

reforming without ever going,

so that what I see and feel, and even breathe, is still you,

but everything around has shifted and altered,

everything different.

Where there were flowers the leaves now fall,

where there was warmth, the snow covers,

And coldness wraps and invades, and eats away,

at me.

Yes, me.

This woman who thirsts for the places she cannot travel.

Whose mouth waters at the very sight of the one she cannot see.

Whom senses eternity in the acorn she holds,

in the sky she evaporates in her mind,

and the outline of the shadow where you almost stand.

Day 231: Temporary

| Aspergers Girls

(This is a continuation from yesterday’s post: Day 230 Tornado )

From the backseat of a dented sedan, amongst a cluttering of mismatched suitcases, I drew in my breath through my nostrils and lowered my head in doleful resignation. There, outside my car window atop a plateau, slept a muddy-brown structure—most of its windows draped in faded tangerine sheets.

“There it is,” Ben said, curling his lips into a satisfied grin and tapping his hands on the steering wheel to the beat of the song Sexual Healing.

The car engine stopped.  The music stopped.  And Ben started.  “Just take a look,” he said with an easy stroke to Mother’s sleeveless shoulder.  “It’s just like I told you. Look!”

Glancing forward and to the left a bit, I followed Ben’s rounded back up, and then across and down the length of his burly arm to his stubby finger which pointed through the window to a pathetic dwelling; which alas, to my deep disappointment, appeared to be the worst house on the best street in town.  Not only was the house in desperate need of paint and the yard weeping with neglect, but the mailbox itself was a rusted clump of sadness.  My soon to be new home, this place I would slumber and eat, shower and dress, and partake in life in general, was ironically misplaced, set out in front of the world in its worst garment and accessories.

Knowing what to do, almost instinctively, I narrowed my eyes into a half-squint and scanned the surface alternating the image of the house from blurry to clear and back again to blurry.  I’d looked at my reflection in the mirror in the same way, after discovering by blurring my reverse-self I was momentarily able to erase all visible flaws.

 

The rest is in the book 🙂