Movement

The following is an entry from another journal I hide from others. I hide it because it prevents me from worrying what others will think of each entry and I can write with as much freedom as my soul will allow. I have actually prettied this one up a bit, due to the incoherent nature of the punctuationless and misspelled paragraphs but I may have missed some here or there. Please forgive. Now, in an attempt to become more vulnerable and trusting of this regular audience and any who might read me, I deliver this:

All week, we've been moving constantly, tapping into the culture and community of this new place. I write so much more. And for whatever reason I have so much more to write. I long to expose my heart to someone here, but I just do not trust enough. I do feel alone. Here lie the scriptures of this invulnerable heart:

Alonely Earred Unexistence

Movement all the day
Like the rain, Misting
Fragile existence yawns our purpose

Against the downcry I swash,
Crawling up the sky

An awkward protusion
lifting screams consumes the thirsty waters.
Obtusely Crying, weeping
Ne'er clinching companionship.
Exhausted by his
lover's oppresion
Yard after yelping yard yEARning to yield his yoke,
unbeknownst to passion,
patternless publishments prove pointless and impotent.

Tongue topples tireless torrents of tyrany
from a verbose vagabond.
Eventually victory vivifies at the mention
of fragile existence steels the perfect word from Strength.



A translation or to recall the emtions of today, we explain a part of this swept heap:

Title - A One Yeared Unexistence OR Alonely Earred Unexistence

I tried to portray a part of me that so often feels left out. Scarred by the inability to remain in a single relationship, flowing over into nearly every moment of conscious thought. Desire to interact. Lost in the masses, as they say. A drop of rain, just like any other, differing only in his direction. They all fall down, smashing and stealing part of him with them.
"Fragile existence yawns our purpose" - soft and breakable as the rain (yet rain can reform and destroy) in a mist hanging (yawning) with dispassion of purpose.

In a picture of a desparate seeker drenched in the downpour of domestic (internal and external) discouragement, the single drop unites, nay, melds with ears of that desolate soul in whom he tries to find refuge. The drop embraces the screams of the ears. How can an ear hear if the ear itself is screaming? The function of an ear is not to create sound. The ear, the year, the drop of rain, is lonely. For why would any come to this place without first knowing what resided in a desert.

But slowly a voice, Tongue, is made audible despite the stupid yelps of the lonely trio. Audible because fragile existence (life, love, hope, a word from God) is stolen and shielded from the the yearners. It is not to get what we seek but to exist for what we were made. Place and purpose are pointless regardless of desire lest we grasp our design, our meant-to; our Mentor. Upon this revelation, the word saught finds the original revelation, "the perfect word" stolen from "Strength".

If you'd like, leave a comment. Criticism is welcome and praise builds confidence. I will be soliciting your praise, thus the reason I posted this to begin with.

Shukran (that is arabic for Thank you).