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Dear Master

I have a bone to pick, but it sticks in my throat an old fish bone I keep eating with no hope of digesting. There’s no point to the rant I offer you. That’s what makes me wring my hands with an emotional wash that still smells of fumes and fish. I know the answers you’ll give me to every question I could ask. So why ask?

Knowledge is a devil if there ever was one. Gives you comfort while it steals your security in endless mind games you can’t stop tricking yourself with. How could you fill my head with all this knowledge of who I am? Light and gold. Miracles and love. I look down at my costume and want to rip it till I’m naked. I can’t escape my frightened thoughts that burn me in a lava flow, erupting in my brain and filling my mouth with an eager malice. I used to know myself, but now I can’t seem to rid myself of a woman with a lunatics thoughts. You could have told me in the beginning that ignorance was not only bliss, but a quaalude cocktail that would’ve left me sleeping; a contented mongrel in a sewer heap that knows no better. Now a youthful, hungry anger boils in my belly and it’s more bitter than death no matter how many times I swallow it down. But there be the rub, lassie. Poison is best drawn from a wound and all wounds must be opened to cleanse them of their infection. And so, my mind is rent until the ugliness that hides there oozes forth for me to see. No blinking.

For love you say, as I yank at my own chain. My choice you announce and I could beat you within an inch of my own life if I weren’t plagued by the truth in it. It eats at my brain until I’m smashing the bed, the couch and tearing up my brakes in the car. Screw the red pill, Neo. Gulp down the blue pill and relish the beauty of being blind.

You should’ve told me to leave when I came through the door, Master. You should have said the price for awakening is your sanity.

Your currently, wretched student

Myth Makers

Image re-posted from Art For Ever's Facebook page

Image re-posted from Art For Ever’s Facebook page

The Greeks told myths because it was easier than telling hard lessons to blind men. Stories capture our attention as whispers in a church. They break our boundaries and lull us into understanding because they speak in common images we see every day. They elevate the mundane to magic and in that transformation understanding is imparted to even the dullest of minds. We succumb because we make the mistake of believing a story isn’t real. Yet everything about a story, a myth, a metaphor is in a sense real. Because it’s not about the story, in the end. It’s about the information it delivers to the attentive ear. That little bit of knowing in tight corners is always real.

Translating life is a kind of storyteller’s trick, though it seems complicated. Death is a big ball of fire when looked at from a lover’s heart, but for the storyteller it is a page turning moment. The spot where the hero finds a boat and steps in for destinies unknown. Daydreamers are life’s minstrels. They spin a world we can understand when faced with endless events in our “real” world that make no sense at all.

Blessed are the myth makers. They breath a rich life into a chaotic world.

This is a work in progress from The Writer’s Church workshop, Boulder, CO. Hosted by Marj Hahne

A Life Your Own

Image re-posted from For Ever Art Facebook page

Image re-posted from For Ever Art Facebook page

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.

Steve Jobs