In between the moon and you
the angels get a better view
of the crumbling difference
between wrong and right…
This lonely mind is wandering from morning to night, pondering on the principles of existance. Not why we are here, that much is obvious. But the point to being here. Is purpose as intergral to the human condition as sex, violence and survival? Are we trying to be something we are not when we consider our paths?
All our paths seem to try to lead us toward the same elixir of life, the fundamental beauty of true connection. Whether we lay our souls wide open in our paintings, photographs, writings, whether the connection is found for a musician when he or she picks a face out in the crowd who stares right back at them and nods because they get it, whether connection is found when you lay bare with another human being, for whatever reason, it is our grail, our quest. It drives us and everything we do.
I feel incredibly lonely both in and out of myself. I am lonely, innately, we all are, struggling to understand one another with the clumsiest of communication mediums; speech, body expression, language. Our brains, crammed with the depths of emotion and capacity for love we can barely withstand, can only murmur ourselves into other peoples ears, in desperation to be understood, but never to be comprehended. When you find companionship and link with one who understands you, your heart feels lifted, ‘at last’ you speak, ‘I’m not alone.’ And when you let them go, or they leave, or die, or lie, or lose themselves and you, you feel a part of you breaking, and a fracture appears, scar tissue forms. Like sclerosis of the heart, the scarring never goes, simply accumulates. And just how every pat of butter, every greasy fry, every steak inexorably erodes the hearts ability to push blood around your veins, so that every little, every fucking little piece of pain you inhale reduces your ability to ever feel love from anyone ever again. Withdrawing, deep inside, you reside, catching eyes with strangers in cars opposite at the intersection, or bump shopping carts and smiling at the collision, giving money to strangers, and thats the sum total of your connections. That’s where you find solace. And it aches so hard, so viciously that you find yourself crying at movies and praying they don’t kiss or make love on screen else it reminds you of what you might have lost, or never had.
The world sleeps every night with 6 billion people who rest thier heads on the pillows and become once again individuals, away from the illusions of community and family and connection, they become alone, they dream, they are seperate.
They might come across our planet one day, intelligent life from elsewhere in the universe, and not find us blown to smithereens under our violent temperament, or find us experiencing enlightenment from higher callings, but simply find us all asleep forever in our beds, because we gave up trying to be understood and denied ourselves the suffering we could never seem to escape, protected from the elusive struggle for … connection.
We might just be happy then. Maybe.