Endless Days |
Oct 31 2011 |
Endless Days
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
I hear the clock on the wall.
And it never stops at all.
Another hour.
Another day.
Another week passes me by.
No more obligation.
No more weeks-end.
Yet another reason to cry.
My work gave me purpose
as such as it was
with this pain that forever will haunt me.
And it was enough to retain
my dignity in the strife
of this life I wish to sustain.
I could have been so much more
but now I'm unable,
like a lame horse in his stable
dreaming of pastures once roamed.
And the clock on the wall
it taunts me--
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
And it never stops at all.
Will
Never
Stop
At all.
STRENUBA
And it is the 'ticking', ever, 'ticking' of the clock that mocks us, in remembrance of all that passed before, and of the viable and purposeful life, that illness, and age lay waste; but, also of the next 'second' of time ever passing into the next second, that bears witness to what--perhaps--might have been, but will probably never be, and further, as each second passes, it is one less second that we have been individually granted.
Time thus accuses us, tries and convicts us for crimes we consciously did not commit. But that unwanted illness did. FOr in this regard, our 'sentence' is to live a life of unspeakable pain, ( and as there is NO cure ), no parole is possible.
We are unravelled by constant, and chronic pain so severe, that it expands to fill the void of that day with yet another, deeper, and darker void.
This piece, and your work possess a thundering power, a rhythm, and...a magic. And in such an economy of words and thought, that--in such an economy of truth, and of my comment of it, I have perhaps written fifty times what you did, and did so well.
But, dear 'Strenuba', that is only evident of my tendency to wax long. Perhaps, tediously so. However, my friend, that is how I write, and how I speak.
And, try as I might, I cannot make adequate expiation for that which for that which is MY voice.
However, I must tell you, 'Strenuba', my dear friend, you possess a most powerful voice, for which I can only but urge you to please, please continue to tell us what we need to know, even--as you have said--you write for yourself. For your works NEED to be read, and much more widely so.
It may, for you, be an unwanted intrusion of your privacy,about which I would have to concur, as there are many things we of necessity keep hidden in our hearts.
However, dear 'Strenuba', please, please continue to share that which you feel comfortable sharing; sometimes, my dear friend, even some things that must share, in reaching out--as human to human. mind to mind, and heart to heart, those elements of ourselves that help others who must suffer in kind, but who HAVE no voices. No advocates. No guides for the journey we all must make, however pain-laden they are.
Once more, my friend, I thank you, and can only promise that which you promise: to ever be your friend, and to be 'there' for you, to the extent that you need.
If I may, 'Strenuba', I would go beyond wishing for you diminished pain ( which I most certainly do ), to wish for you some lasting peace.
Charles
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Dear 'Strenuba',
Please forgive me, my dearest friend for using as my salutory, your MDJunction 'name', instead of your given name, as I feel you are an intensely private person, and I wish to honor that, saving your given name for my PM's to you.
However, 'Strenuba', upon reading this--your latest work--I feel most compelled to comment upon it, in the public venue, for I wish ALL to see it.
I know that, on many occasions, others have remarked upon your singular talent, and I would be--as your friend--remiss, were I to not mention it myself.
I am both blessed, and grateful, that you found some inspiration in my work, for which I thank you; however, 'Strenuba', it is YOU who have that natent ability to take base metal, and refine it into gold of such brightness, that it is burnished so as to pierce the heart, even as it clouds the eyes, with its keening for what has been lost, and that which has so offended your days that both illness AND time have become as true enemies; theives of life, or purpose, meaning, accomplishment, all that is important, and all that together constitute the mind, body, and...very soul.
And, that you can do this in a tense, economy of words, address that, for which--largely--there are no adequate words.
If I may but quote a passage from your poem, " Endless Days " :
'I could have been so much more
but now I'm unable,
like a lame horse in his stable
dreaming of pastures once roamed.'
'Strenuba', my dear, dear friend, while I was moved by your work in its entirety--for reasons of which I shall subsequently speak, THAT passage sang to me, for--to me--it eloquently made refernce to all that once was, which, after illness, pain, and suffering, can now only be dreamt about; indeed, we would glady loose out very souls to find--again--freedom, to that state more perfect than the one reality provides.
Continued, dear 'Strenuba' on next comment, lest I run out of room.