Maybe it’s in a thicket of conifers, maybe an isle in the gulf, maybe in a bay window, sun-soaked yellowing pages provoked by thumb and index. Smudged hearts and streaks left from the Windex.
It’s so difficult to find joy. Under a rock, perhaps hidden in some tea leaves; Earl Grey.
Grey, grey, grey.
It’s the filter over your eyes, scales and veils, caught in Kansas with no Oz in sight. Left dreary and dreadful, with only cynical realism because these synapses hold Seratonin ransom like a POW in the Land of the Rising Sun.
But the sun never comes up. Caught in perpetual dawn, your whole earth groaning for the sunlight. Blades of grass and limbs of leaves stretching just to get a peek.
Even from the peaks, no light, no dark, just tepid glow. Knowing there’s good, so out of focus because of the bad. No lenses to change, shutter speed slowed to seizure.
Caught in a waltz of “I need to be heard” and “I won’t say a word” like a nun and a mime on a ballroom floor. It’s not gracing your ears like a dandelion in the wind, more like the incessant tapping of a pencil on a desk, an anxiety-ridden insomniac leads the cadence. It’s not so bad at first, but it sinks in to the bone, sucking you dry of happiness, no Patronus charm could fend off the horde.
I want to believe it will stop, I want to see the Reds and yellows, be a jolly fellow, greet each day with a warm ‘Hello’, a little Beethoven in the background on the cello. Like every moment a miracle given from Yahweh, so precious, so Crimson, so whole. The summer nights holding hands while the fireflies lit the fields, you tell me you love me and I believe that it’s true. Or those days by the beach when I made you that castle, I want to build you a kingdom, a Queen of the sea, shells in your hair and sand in your toes.
It’s not a matter of choosing light over dark. There isn’t choice with a grayscale voice. I wish it weren’t so, stuck here with my woe, when my woe won’t leave me be.
So Christ will the sun rise only in Japan, or can it rise for me? Where Joy can be a reality, and the woe plays a lesser role? Find time to find time in a busy heart? Your Lazarus witnessed the wrath and decay, but breathed fresh air with dead lungs. Your woman of Serene drew living water from a man with no shame. Your Judas let loose that silver and your Peter walked tall on your waves.
Can I have a simple mind? It’d be just as much a miracle to me.
I know I frequent your ears with my breath stained of needs and wants. Crude and honest because I’m exasperated. Crude and honest because I hate who I am. Crude and honest because I know you don’t. Maybe some day I’ll see your hand guiding me. Maybe someday we’ll have more to talk about than my self-created, obsessive woes. Maybe someday you’ll convince me I am wanted.