Intimacy

I was his kid once. There were times where I felt, I was his right hand man, no man could usurp my position. The wolves could not, would not, dig there claws in. But as I grew older that turned out to be an illusion. I breathed in her blood, it was unclean and it was numbing to the touch. I don't know where it became unclean, whether it was actually me; but I knew she was not being redeemed. Despite what it seemed, I was pulling on her strings, it was MY FEAR that was manipulating her and me. I had become captured by distortion, my hands in a contortion, and any holiness left was neglected and headed to abortion. He said it was all dark, and his new girl said I'd lost that light. I cried "Father please, Could you be a little more quiet?". His anger was gone. He was nowhere in sight.

I wanted to tell him I was embarrassed, that I was ashamed. That there were demons forming, demons calling out my name. That my addiction was growing, that my integrity was collapsing, that I was scared my faith was perishing along with the little identity I had. We missed out on those promises held by our starry-eyed birthkings, but their crowns were cracked anyways; then they were disowned, and finally overthrown. Some of us found sages to keep hold of our secret stories, to hold them as sacred and secure, never to be sold. Others found the Lords of World, always keen and cunning and counting the new kid into his hurt demeanor, paving down the path of healing with the pleasures of stealing. Stealing, we would never see it as such, but as our eyes gaze back to the hollow glaze, we are evaluating the worth of everything we see and we are buying and selling, counting the common and the sacred on the values of worth we deem to have meaning. The convenience of a temporal truth.

Truth is relative right? At least consciously. But subconsciously I am taking her for free from my computer screen, when I know in my heart she might mean the world to me, if I only knew her. But I don't. I don't know her, and I never will, she is an image or a clip, she is the most intimate section snipped to fit my addiction.

It is an addiction I am sick of having. I am sick of being consumed with her genitalia instead of keeping my eyes on the road while I singing her "blue dahlia". I am sick of being part of the american sex trade, I was far too young, to be part of that grand objectification by our culture. I was a cog of our lust-conditioned culture. A slave to my eyes and my hands and to the same wolves that ate our daddy's heart. He wasn't coming home just from a hard day at work, nor was he leaving just to escape the ramblings of his incompetent child. It wasn't just his rage that was wild, it was his tears, as he wept in fits apologizing for things I didn't understand, as I anxiously forgave him, too frightened to see my father as a weak and broken man. Whatever passion was left went into the idols that gave him that glaze. The same glaze that covers my eyes.

I don't mean to be critical, but I will not brush it aside. Aside and aside it was hid, away from the light so that no one could peer into this disgusting heart of mine. I don't mean to be critical of you, honestly I do respect you, but these are my scars, and the wounds are getting infected constantly. I am trying to find meaning despite the seeping sickness plaguing me. And my flesh tells me its inherent, that it's part of my definition, that there is nowhere above this because I am as captive as you are to this identity.

If I close my eyes, and study the white-hooded flame-carrier, even in temptation, even in the sickness, I must recognize that there is something pulling me away from this. That I am not just convicted by repulsion, though repulsed I am. I am convicted to glance at gentler hands. That my hands are made to be gentler hands, that thats the deeper truth. That these bags under my eyes, won't cross into the divine threshold, but my soul will be kept trudging through eternities wake. That my nature exist for intimacy, not just to take on some pseudo-spiritual legalism, but to break reigns of backseat "love" for pursuit of sober-eyed truth-love. Idealistic, I know, but if the King reign like I say he do, I can keep these sweet sweet lovesongs, the ones I wrote as a child to be true.

Before it all set in. When my nature was handpicked to spin her round. To settle down.
To see the glee of children singing with her, to shout those hymns with her in happy tears.
Whoever, wherever she is.

I think I could rise above, I think I could be intimate. I think I could bring myself in. This culture is so hollow, leading children into a void. But I am not hollow, I am wholy whole. I am whole without another soul. My steps carry weight, not on their own, but this body is not its own. I recognize that. I share this temple intimately. I have faith in it's foundations, in its dedication. Doesn't matter what comes through my gates, those wolves should fear what resides inside. What resides here has been planted, and the roots are more than steel beams, not to be uprooted by these horrible half-dreams. Not to be usurped by geneology. For The Father is a Grand King.

I believe theres more for me. I believe in Intimacy.


Here's a spotify link for the Song Blue Dahlia I was referring to earlier.
If you dont have spotify, get it, its free.
The Gaslight Anthem – Blue Dahlia