Some peoples seasons play out like chapters.
When they remember the events of their lives, they flip through pages, skim through certain paragraphs and idolize others, and when the chapter is over they move on to the next one.
I never quite worked like that. I always lived at last minute, my head was down, and life hurled me around like a comet. What a fiery orbit. That was the world that I lived in. I was bold and brash, and I spoke the ramblings in my head like grand prophecy. I stirred up my fire whenever the storms were brewing and I held tight to the riddles of those romantic dreams. The chapters were rolled together, one incoherent paragraph. The plots never died down, it was all spitfire rolling into gasoline. One barrel detonating after another. One great fireworks show.
Now, the things in the room are still rattling and theres still a light in the corner flickering. My hair is ruffled and I am still slowly unclenching my fist. I'm letting go of romantic dreams and grasping parables to fill those open seams between my ribs and heart. I am going somewhere else, where things are not so dusty, where the scent of flesh doesnt lay on the breeze.
I spent to many years chasing after that scent.
I can never get those years back. I can never get those years back.
Then again, I cannot retrieve next year after its done. I will feel the hands of ghosts then as I do now. I cannot sway suffering and ask him to leave me be. But I can have providence and I can turn from myself unto more beautiful things. I can listen to his words and place them like precious jewels in my heart. I dont need to necessarily wrap a chain around my waist. I may have a fever but I haven't quite built up a sweat like her. My blood is thicker now, despite how poisoned it is. I'll probably need a specialist.
As much as I do need professional help, I've gotten through the brush with the help of my Punksaints. It was by their help that I got the courage to cut the throat of the sea-monster Psalv-Muron and it was by their help that I entered the hands of the Buruchaperu. It was from the hands of Buruchaperu that the Young Cardinals came to me, and now I return to their home with them. Fitting, isn't it? It's funny, this feeling that I'm home. Home feels pretty foreign to me.
The folks here are the rusty saints that my heart has called out for in my rebirth.
I spent the years looking for someone like you Brother King.
Some wore your scars, others carried your luminescence.
But I havent seen a man shine through their scars, not like you do.
Not till now.
I was always waiting for something to happen. For a grand miracle amongst the explosions. For the troops of angels to come down in a whirlwind and arrest the tyranny and the hostility. I spent a lot of time clicking my red heels and wishing for home. More time wishing than praying anyhow.
I always thought somewhere deep that fortunes belonged to the richer men.
But, by God, how rich my life is. How full of providence and blessing it is.
Im scared to believe in these wayward dreams, and I'm scared to sleep without the static running in the background.
If the Champ asks, yeah Im doing alright. Got a parable in my right hand and a torch in my left. Gonna run with those scarred saints and were gonna sleep and pray before we go out to drive.
It'll be right. Got Providence on my side.
No comments:
Post a Comment