All The Tired Horses
In the best of my dreams, there is no hurry. No rush to be here, no rush to be there. No haste to finish this, no haste to finish that. No bills outstanding, no messages boiling under the screen saver in unopened pandemonium.
In the best of my dreams, there is this quiet understanding, this confidence that my time here is meaningful and my endeavours worthwhile.
Other nights, I drift away into half-waking images that find me at the border of some precarious event. Around me, there are always others who huddle close by, shadowy figures of restless expectation, their smoky faces longing to know if the way we must go runs boldly into the face of danger, or if we have gathered to find a different and safer path.
In that moment, the world fills with the riotous noise of doubt, waiting anxiously for me to decide. Decide? Decide what? Decide or what? Decide or die?
I am staggered by the moment. It is all too much for me, too much responsibility, so overpowering and crippling. Half-believing that I can block out the noise, I listen for some soft but distinct voice, some guiding assurance, gentle as the wind, but full of the knowledge of how to choose, how to bend and shape fate, how to finish the journey that is my life.
I hear nothing, feel only a gaping wound of darkness, and all my senses numb under the weight of emptiness and the pain of isolation.
In that moment, I understand the meaning of loneliness, because loneliness has almost nothing to do with failing in your relationships with others, and everything to do with failing in your relationship with yourself.
In the best of my dreams, there is no hurry. No rush to be here, no rush to be there. No haste to finish this, no haste to finish that. No bills outstanding, no messages boiling under the screen saver in unopened pandemonium.
In the best of my dreams, there is this quiet understanding, this confidence that my time here is meaningful and my endeavours worthwhile.
Other nights, I drift away into half-waking images that find me at the border of some precarious event. Around me, there are always others who huddle close by, shadowy figures of restless expectation, their smoky faces longing to know if the way we must go runs boldly into the face of danger, or if we have gathered to find a different and safer path.
In that moment, the world fills with the riotous noise of doubt, waiting anxiously for me to decide. Decide? Decide what? Decide or what? Decide or die?
I am staggered by the moment. It is all too much for me, too much responsibility, so overpowering and crippling. Half-believing that I can block out the noise, I listen for some soft but distinct voice, some guiding assurance, gentle as the wind, but full of the knowledge of how to choose, how to bend and shape fate, how to finish the journey that is my life.
I hear nothing, feel only a gaping wound of darkness, and all my senses numb under the weight of emptiness and the pain of isolation.
In that moment, I understand the meaning of loneliness, because loneliness has almost nothing to do with failing in your relationships with others, and everything to do with failing in your relationship with yourself.
