What the living do

We fasten our seat-belts, we take down our laundry. We read sign-posts, ask for directions. We know, with honesty stinging our eyes, of the feeling, the feeling of being lost, in some way indescribable to others. Absent, almost. We carry this absence with us, strung high above our heads, a ghostly mockery of what was once the only proof of our existence; it overwhelms us and consumes everything else, bringing nothingness in heavy waves. Absence was everywhere, the day you became so.

But I, I find myself still here, holding onto the silences you left behind, trying to capture the sensation of weightlessness that you gave to me when we were together, finding on street corners the echoing sound of your laugh, the scent of the back of your neck trailing after a stranger. I find these things, and I still remember you. I remember the colour of the skin between your fingers, behind your earlobe. I remember the faces you would make when something flew into your eye; I remember the taste of your tears, the rhythm of your tapping feet, the sound of your car keys. I remember what you screamed into the darkness at night, the cold sweat clamming your forehead, the beating of your heart, rhythmic and fast, tempestuous and impassioned, and then methodical and slow, decisive and deliberate. Your voice, rising in intonation as you reach the end of a question. Gasping for breath in the most unusual of places, as if you needed to say each and every one of those words urgently, as if you needed to release them into the atmosphere before they burned a hole, toxic and black in your lungs.

At the beginning of my life, I saw you. Vague and inconsistent, like I’d find you to be, but still in my mind, burnt onto the inside of my eyelids, ever-present and consistently beyond my grasp. I wake up in the middle of the night, grasping the air. My hands never find anything tangible to hold onto though. I pull them closer to myself, to gather the remnants of my heart to myself, for it is no easier to gather the oxygen in the air to myself than it is to gather you closer to me.

My heart. You held it in your hands until the day I threw it into the sea. The rain forgot to fall and I stared into your eyes, defying you with every atom in my fragile being, attempting feebly to cut the wires and the cables that tied my heart to yours, but failing, for we both knew we could do no such thing. And so with each moment that you are not here, you break me apart, you unfold me, you pull at those cords, wrapped dangerously about my heart, calling, pulling me closer to you, closer to nothingness. I remain helpless as you take all the pieces of myself, and in your viscerality, you scatter those you wish, and hold fast to the rest. Claiming those pieces of me, so that I lose all ownership and command of my own being, given over to a death that was never mine to begin with.

And I’ve been sleeping with this silence in my mouth. In my head. And no one knows it but I can’t hold onto it any longer. It weighs upon my chest, with leaden despair, and for those who like gravity, the feeling is a comfort. But for those who know the feeling of weightlessness, who hold the memory of such in their minds, gravity is nothing more than a burden, an unnecessary reminder of something that has changed. Do you know what it’s like, waiting for one to die? Stilling in the night, waiting for the sound of silence, for the whispers of dark cloth, the folds of which hold the entirety of your life, the coarse weave to sweep over you catching up in it the mist of your existence. You know nothing of this, for you chose not to wait, but to go forth and meet him with open arms and gentle smiles.

And we, the living, move on. We forget to dream, forget to remember. Forget the sensation of weightlessness, in order to carry gravity with a little more dignity. You would like to believe that we hold on forever to what you represent, but alas for thee, we have not yet resigned ourselves to your fate just yet. So we open and close windows, we hum in the shower. We look both ways when we cross the road, sometimes once, sometimes stepping out blindfolded. We boil the kettle, we whisper to each other in movies, and sometimes, we think of you, but never for too long. We miss phone calls, call back, say hello, how are you, thank you, I love you, I’m sorry, farewell. We collect, we lose, we find. We carry on living the lives that you forsook, in order to continue to survive.

The seat of ones being

Before the heart, most believed that the seat of a person, the place from which emotions dwelt and grew was the spleen. Situated between the heart and lowest rib, close to the stomach, it was easy to presume that it was the source of the feeling of butterflies when one beheld the object of their dearest affection. As far as human anatomy was concerned, organs held as much symbolism and influence on a person’s disposition as the physical functions themselves. Hippocrates believed that the spleen was the seat of the most disagreeable aspects of a person’s character, Plato and Aristotle contested in their own individual ways, and from that moment on, debate about its purpose and influence perpetuated throughout the centuries until a doctor named Christo in 1962, after spending a lifetime compiling research produced a study of the segmental anatomy of the spleen, displacing the former beliefs and designating it with a more realistic purpose in the functions of the body. Although the history of the spleen is wrought with fables and myths, it is also a dwelling place for truths and realities.

At King David of Jerusalem’s death, Adonijah, one of David’s sons, enlists fifty men to assist him in usurping the throne from Solomon, David’s desired heir. In the Talmud it states that these fifty men are chosen because they all had their spleen removed. Rabbi Shlomo ben Yitzchak (1040-1105), a Talmudic commentator, suggested it was because the spleen caused a sensation of heaviness that disabled one to run fast. Perhaps the sensation was the heaviness of unrequited love, of the feeling of transparency amongst those one loves which brought upon this feeling. The origins and cause of such physical manifestations of emotions remained shrouded in mystery, and unfortunately for the spleen, the Middle Ages credited it as the organ to hold and develop the sinking feeling in the pit of one’s core, the heaviness that dwells between ones lungs, the aching feeling that settles itself between the heart and the lowest rib. This feeling, unwelcome at the best of times, could very well be the reason Hippocrates associated the spleen, the obvious culprit for such unpleasanties, with the more disagreeable aspects of a person’s character; the aspects which cause one who is aching to cry out in desperation, to disturb the status quo and shout out in agonising tones, ‘Help me, for I am hurting’.

Like physical pain, which informs us when something is not quite right, this feeling of agonising desperation, of sorrow and despair informs us that emotionally, something is not quite right. This pain, manifested in a sense of heaviness which can stop one from performing everyday duties, is not entirely bad. It enables one to speak out, however timidly at first of the feelings that, like wind, cannot be initially seen but through the affects it has on its surroundings. And once that wall of self has been broken down, once the cry for help has been heard, allows another to whisper comfortingly that they too have a feeling that they are transient, that their life could be merely a hallucination. That they fear that the necessity of their existence is felt by few, if not none, and though at times, it pains ones core, they know that whilst they are still here, they can help you. Which is one of the most comforting things one can say to another in times of loneliness and sadness.

Nowadays, it is known that the spleen is the seat of our immunity, and is as vital to our survival for its contemporary purpose as it was for its perceived purpose of holding ones emotions. It is now known that it acts as a blood reservoir, so that in times of shock, times when the body finds it difficult to cope with external demands, it releases blood and can prevent shock. However, once injured, the spleen is the most difficult organs to repair, and is, in most cases, simply removed. In the light of its history, founded in half-truths and Byzantine and Delphian enigmas, one could almost presume that the spleen has retained some of its presumed functions as the seat of emotions, and of feelings, and in order to repair such a delicate organ, one must holistically approach the injured and mend not only damaged organs, but broken hopes and damaged feelings as well. For although the spleen no longer is credited for holding emotions, nor heaviness, nor love, it can still be suggested that its functions to keep its owner alive through more than just its physical functions, that it still holds a remnant of its emotional purpose, and thankfully, refuses it give that up.

Hallelujah

Whether the beginning of my life commenced at the moment of my birth: at the shattering gasp of oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen and carbon dioxide into my newly formed lungs, releasing from my fragile frame a shrill, triumphant cry as I lay pressed weakly against my mother’s bosom; remains inconsequential. Or whether my existence was put on hold until the moment in which you spoke, not with words, but with actions, unseen and unknowingly capturing my heart, my soul, by very being, and up until that second I was only a hollow shell of a person, not daring to be any more real. For all the wisdom of the worlds that I held as my own, I know nothing of the moments spent without you.

Meeting you was like the rebirth of everything in history. The stars sung from the heavens and I, I watched from the rooftop of my forlorn palace to where you bathed. It was as if the light from the stars and the moon and the silver clouds had become liquid, that liquid had become human, had taken your form. And as you lifted one of your shining white limbs towards your sister, the moon, my kingdom fell. Fell into your arms, before you had even realised. Bit by bit, you began to hold weightlessly above your head the sound of children laughing, the lands given to me, in battle and in victory. The silences of my city at night, the rising of the sun on the dewy roads and alleys falling upon those who never asked nor deserved its light. The dust rising up from the dry bustle of the afternoon markets, where you walked, delicately weaving through the same heated debates that happened yesterday, and the day before, and the day before. The sound of rain, falling heavily, and then softly, then heavily once more of the flat rooftops, one of which you would sit at night, bathing under the cool light of the universe in all its arrayed splendour. And as you began to hold all of that which was mine, into your atmosphere was swept the crash and clang of swords and armour, the flags and banners fluttering aloft a desperate and not yet victorious breeze to find me, abandoned in my abandonment to remind me of the duty I no longer had authority to hold, the duty which I could no longer claim as my own.

And as I watched, I could no longer find in myself anything of which was now not in you. You, with the grace of the wind, unseen yet felt, had conquered and claimed yourself as victress over my heart. Initially, I had ruled my heart. It was the rule of a king, mighty and indestructible. A king with the favour of the heavens, of the one who called me into being and set me apart to weep in the valleys and move mountains with his might, the declare over the ages the promises made long ago, to hold in my line the one who would save us all. And all of this, you became heir. And I, a mere steward of a kingdom greater than my own, found in you my downfall. My rule was power, was wise, was just. And my heart was subject to that rule, to do my bidding, the bidding of a mind most powerful, alongside my subjects so willing. And my heart of flesh was broken, forced into separate allegiance, that of my country, of my people, of the battle that called to me at each moment, declaring itself rightful owner of my duty and sacrifice, and to you, the property of another, under submission of one who had loved you long before I had laid on thy figure my restless eyes. And yet still, I fought, I struggled within myself to fight the battle I knew beyond a doubt was not mine to enter. The battle of the head, the heart, the man, the king.

Desire is a strange thing to behold, its effects on man both equal parts crushing and uplifting. Its ability, like the form of a beautiful woman who is both haughty and humble, passionate and majestic, to hold one so tightly ensnared in her boiling grip. It was the ropes of which I fell deeply into, winding myself willingly into her bonds, into your bonds. The bonds which you had so unknowingly tightened with each movement of your body, with each note you sung hauntingly, the echoes of which found its way through my abandoned palace to surround my conquered self. In that moment, my hands tied, I begat all remnants of royalty, of all honourable lineage to the sky, to the earth, to anyone but myself, if only to inherit the submission of one whom I could not rightfully claim. But to only speak the words of command, for none knew of my transference of power except myself and the ever watching heavens, and my bidding would become reality, my desires fulfilled in action. A moment of hesitation, before my tongue struck the last spear into the side of conscience, and what I had already begun in my heart crept outside to envelop me in its consequence.

And there, without premeditation on your behalf, with nothing but the humble submission of a subject to thy king, you stripped me of all honour. Of my life, my experiences, my wisdom shaved from my face, my authority torn from my head. Shattered beside us lay my crown of favour, earned in the deserts and the valleys, when none else was watching except the one who mattered most, and from my eyes cried tears of the anointing that in my hour of weakness I had forsaken. And those tears wrenched from my being fell alongside those of the stars, of the galaxies, who, watching with great intent, felt my misgivings as deeply as myself, as deeply as the man who loved you could feel them without knowing any plausible reason to feel as though his life had been ripped out of his hands at the very moment he felt closest to it, yet fathoms from as deeply as the one who gave all to me felt, to watch my foolish heart trade my inheritance, my kingdom for a hoarse whisper from a mouth that was not mine to conquer.

Yet grace begat wisdom to my mistake, atonement searched for and given to my restless, aching heart in the moments of weeping in the presence of one greater than thee. And as the morning light washed clean our inequities, I found I could once more dance before the one who had invested in me more than I could hold by myself. And you; your delicate skin, haunting and full of mans desire, were bought through blood and sorrow, treachery and betrayal, desire that grew to love; you held my line, the line from which would spring wisdom such as the world had never seen before, to birth a kingdom greater than my own, for you had held mine as your own possession since the moment of first breath, to pass on to whom you pleased.

For Mitchell, Happy day of birth.

On the day that both my brother and I were sick, both equally, terribly encumbered with the worst part of an enduring cold, we decided to try cooking our own breakfast. Concluding that the one thing to make us feel better would be a hot meal, we set about compiling clumsily the ingredients for Mitchell’s speciality; Boston Baked-Beans.

Honesty

I neatly fold our love in four, 

I unclasp the window, I open the door. 

I convince my heart to continue to beat,

I hold fast to the ground at my feet.

To the house that we built
On the earths stony shores,

In moments alone,

I become a wanderer of moors.

I find your voice in the whispering heath

In the sighs of the marsh

In spite of mis-deeds
No matter how harsh.

In the light of the stars. 

In the place we called home 

In the once friendly bars

No longer I roam.

And now I know what it would feel like
To be caught up by the night.

To be part of the moon,
A part of the mountain, the mist, and the gloom.

Alone you will stand, at the edge of the sea,
And though my heart may cry out, calling for thee

I know that I know that I'll never return
Your solitary prison I'll no longer sojourn

For the rest of our life,

For of course, we are one

I'll remain more breakable
For without you, my sun

I am naught but a shell, a whisper

Of haze, of memories past
Of long summer days

Of the hushed kisses.

So I content myself sadly,

With writing poems, quite badly

And we both know that I'm not fond of rhyme,

And my rhythm is off, with uneven time

And I bathe in sarcasm,
Though my heart tends to spasm
In the dreadfully misleading
Synonyms that I'm pleading

For I never was yours

And you never were mine,

Though I wrote you some ditties,
You penned sweet Valentines

And this is the moral
Of this sad-standing aural,
That one should know better
Than to write poems when fettered

With a sickness like plague

With a head stuffed and vague

And a cold that cries fury
To thy nose and thy jury

Of now distant friends
Creeping off round the bends

Away from thine ailments
To keep their health from failment 

So alas, my dear friends
We draw nigh to the end
Of this dreadful notation

From a state worse than intoxication

The moral dear reader
Those who've tolerated the meter,
And the clumsy discourse
Poetically alluding to gorse

That would brush the skin raw those

Who continue, leaving red, like my nose.

And the reader quite dizzy

From this lengthening fizzy.

Yes, the moral might be
That, though sick you might be
To write while delirious
Could prove rather serious

To the state of well-being
For any in hearing

Of such a terrible poem,
So I'll leave now, I'm going!

To bed! To bed! To rest my dear head!

Oh, please go now, go now, please do! 

Enough with your rhymes!

Enough with that meter, your peculiar time!

And reader, I thank you, for strong

Dispositions may not last this long

But you, I now fear
Will be riddled with the drear

Of this poetic atrocity,

A literary monstrosity!
Be be off now! I leave thee,
Apologies, now, please, be...

Gone! Go! Flee! 

Before it all

So great is his love for thee that before the earth, before the stars, the heavens, the fall, redemption was his. His to do with what he will. And what he willed was that it was ours. Now that is an act worth a million books, and a thousand words for each moment could never suffice to cover a corner of his grace.

And yet, we crawl, we whine, we moan, we forget the love he has always shown. And in the pain and in the dark, when we finally cry out, shelving our pride to pick up once more what he long ago gave us - we find in him home, a shelter, a fortress, a family. We find water for our dusty feet see scars that show us that we're real, that all of this matters. We find the place that we had long ago searched for - but sometimes faltered, sometimes stumbled.

We see in it places that before felt so far away, and we see that we have been carrying it in our hearts all this time, for he knows, and he remembers that long ago, you declared your love for him, and what he gave you in return for your heart is not easily misplaced, nor broken, nor lost.