Monday, 17 December 2012

Things in a circle at night

So it means to circle round again, wings flapping, struggling against the celestial torrent that is us. Or an image of us or an image of the world in the mirror that is us. Us is where it all seems to end . End, not arrive. End up, but not looking up. Looking down, or maybe sometimes looking inward, where we have looked too often in the wrong direction. But arriving is what we're searching for, and if it  is only arriving in a place that lets us rest and breathe. Then we can praise that riddle that is our earthly existence. Then we can come down from the mountain, up from the gutter, from then on. In dance the direction unfolds sometimes. As and when it happens we don't always know, until much later when there is another evening sky to be endured in all its glory, but separate, but alone. The tiredness of this golden light. Dusk or dawn, the same old face of the world woven into the deepest threads of our dream. That desires the one union. Communion. Community. Communication. Coming home.

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And the pits of the oceans? The bulks of the waves are loaded with unanticipated forms. Nothing that we could ever plan for nor imagine. And yet we insist on planning and imagining a design. Meanwhile, what we really feel has its origin not in the chemical reactions in our brains, but elsewhere. In all those places that we sometimes feel clearly in our hearts but cannot fathom in our minds. Not even begin to express in any language that has ever been uttered in a circle nor written on a scroll nor typed into a machine. The fire is burning, but is it belief or knowledge, that shadowy reign from which we sometimes shriek back as if it was the very thing that held us down? The chains around the legs of the big bird are made from the same material, and we know this. But in the end, will they be broken by willpower or surrender? In the end, it all depends on going forward in concentration and not missing one turn of the spiral. Distraction is sometimes the enemy of wisdom, if not all the time.
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The wild secretions of this city of gold always let us down in the end. Just when we think we have found the key to the steel gate, the gate chooses to slam shut in an immense and inconceivable scream. It's the time of the morning when window panes freeze over with ice and there are not enough ovens burning in the city to change how it feels.

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But what happens to the inside parts where the templates of the story are being written in a continuous whisper? Have you heard the tiny buzzing feet running back and forth? Carrying bowls of splashing water from one room to the next while the stories are spun. Or maybe you have chosen to turn up the volume of your TV in the morning? Or the volume of those other voices in your head that tell you it's time to move on and get going but forgot to provide a map for the trip. Then it dawns on you that you are merely a child-like passenger, and that the wooden horses on their circular journey have more sense than you. Or at least that is what you fear. Whatever you say brother, the fallen ones will tell a different story. Have you heard their mutterings in front of the underground stations? Have you seen their abrupt turn on a violent heel, their wild and desperate stare? We tried our best to fit our lives into the lines and boxes provided. Not more than ten digits, tick here or choose Other. Needless to say, we always chose Other. But even the Other is always there facing us, whether in golden nightskies or in shopping centres.

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But if you want it , the salt of the earth will laugh upon your eyelids. In tiny crystals, it will laugh like tinkling bells. When it happens, allow yourself to cry with all the tears necessary. When it happens and your heart hits the very matter you were made of, and the skies in your soul open to the possibilities that came into being with you, it requires a sense of focus. Focus and space, to let yourself be that unique thing among many others. That inbreath and that outbreath, just like everything else.

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When my star was born      Copyright Vincent Oyenga 2012




2 comments:

  1. This is beautiful and powerful Daniela, the last paragraph is especially resonant x

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  2. Thank you Em, glad it strikes a chord. x

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