Mourning Sorries

I said something hurtful to my dear friend last night – do you ever have a moment you wish you could take back, and do over? Do you ever have hundreds of those?

I often think of myself as a character in a Choose Your Own Adventure book. I never know when I’ll suddenly come to The End. I hope against hope that my poor page-turning will never harm, but only ever help, but I think that is setting the bar too high.

I don’t like being Human on many of my days – of having flaws I can’t seem to overcome, or else see coming before they arrive and turn my own pages for me, while writing bad turns into the pages of the people I care most about. It is the worst feeling in the world: letting people down, when I should be picking them up.

Sometimes I just lie in bed, trying to beam what I really feel directly at the people I want to help heal. I imagine my spirit – unencumbered by my pride or impatience or pettiness – can hold hands directly with the spirit of my loved one, and just let them know what I really want for them, what I wish my warmed-over husk of a meat puppet would say and do, if it could only just bring itself to.

In that realm of spirit, my mortal imagination sees only souls trying to help each other steer their bodies right, in a grand cooperative game where we defy chance and somehow win together, in spite of the flaws draped over and wrapped around our precious, imperilled little pawns.

In that place, we are just in harmony, swimming in all of this Love and Hope for each other, holding spirit hands (or tendrils, or nubbins, or thoughtful threads), and we never once go to bed angry or tired or hurting or sorry.

A soul has so much more to say than its body can ever deliver. The waking world is a bad game of scratchy telephone. Please keep listening, and I will please keep doing it too. 😦 ❤


Shades of Light

A small piece of Light
glint, catch my eye
here in the corner
near pass me by

Was I in the Dark
with It all around
and harrowed heart
my lone, lonely sound

Open invite to writery types: Make this poem better. Or just longer. Or both. Or neither.

All these Things are Open-Source