being raped you would
cry out stop. STOP.
But where is the voice?
Where is sound?
There is a cave, deep down, where
a silent breeze blows, and small
glitters of streams flow.
On the surface, there is something,
but it has no name.
And it all ends, but it doesn’t.
Comment: I have no physical experience of being raped, but emotionally, I think most of us see examples every day. I went to a local flea market yesterday, and I looked in eyes, lots of eyes. There is much to see, that is rarely seen. Few of us know our neighbors. Too few of us know our friends. I myself seem to regularly elicit confessions of various sorts. Perhaps they sense that their secrets don’t scare me. In any event, I recognize them. Oh, we all have stories, many stories. But, it seems to me, too few songs.
I am slowly realizing my curse–someday blessing, who knows?– is perhaps to see far, far more than I want. But I do have a cave, and that is something.
I’m awake in the middle of the night again, drinking gin. I took my nightly punishment as long as I could, but all of us have limits, and gin is a mercy I choose to grant myself at this moment.
All of this means something. I strongly feel I chose this life, this challenge, this difficulty, this pain. It is mine. It belongs to me. I chose this real estate, this condition. And I will make something of it. As they say, the hard gets done immediately, but the impossible takes a bit more time.