Triumph of the Heart

There were swamps, slums, gottas, brunks, love songs,
Hidden pleasure, ignored passion, secret worship,
Quiet movement and undisclosed self loving,
Now I know God has brought me here for something

I take a quick glance around the arena as a grumpy bookie elbows me into decision making. The Heart is more likable, but I read weakness in its gentle gestures and innocent smiles. The Mind’s sturdy image emits confidence, and although its gloomy dark robe gives me goose-flesh, there’s no time for a second thought. I make a safe bet. What a chicken, I tell myself.

My head says I lost my way
But my heart knows that my life is destined in anyway
A long road running towards stops where I pay
Pay, pay for what I have taken and is got what I deserving

A few lonely drops run down my spine when I hear the crowd cheering. I wake up from this self-imposed hypnosis to see the Heart on the floor, motionless. Gaudy colors blend with piercing whistles as I escape for the door, ready for all of it to fade away, stay behind, dissolve in the night breeze, disappear and be forgotten.

Needed to search myself to go back
Had no signs of hope before lost in the darkness
Not knowing what my fate makes of me
And oh ignoring the fellowship accompanying me

The clingy hand grabs my sleeve and pulls me back into the noise. It’s not over, the bookie grins. There’s another dose of beating up, slipping down and bleeding away. The winner takes on the Pride. I silently examine the Mind leaping in the corner, dark hood sliding down unnoticed, revealing the confused gaze and moisture on the weary forehead. I am not a big fan of the Pride. Struggling to silent my instincts this time, I bet on the one I believe in, not the one I think looks more promising. I know this attempt to do the right thing comes too late in the game, but I can only make so many mistakes before they start contaminating my soul.

What is the mind without the heart
What am I without my shadow
What is life without knowing that death comes
What is a song without a melody

I feel every drop of blood touch the floor. They burn tiny holes in my head, devouring my thoughts and turning them into blankness. I feel no strength. She can’t afford to lose this one, I hear the coach yell as he throws in the towel. I feel relieved enough to get up and run. Across the isle, up the stairs, onto the ring floor, out of breath and lost for words, I stop and look down, puzzled. I feel nothing. My silence offers little compassion to the Mind. Sorry, I whisper before dashing back through the crowd, past panicky stares and out of their range.

Tell me, won’t you tell me, what your mind is without your heart
Tell me, do you feel, do you feel happiness
When you don’t feel pain
Your heart, your heart, your heart…
Your soul, your soul, your soul…
Say we must destroy in order to rebuild,
In order to rebuild, don’t you know, don’t you know
Your heart, polarity must be for you and me, for you and me...

Somewhere in the back room, I drop to my knees in front of a lonely figure, shattered in its quiet calamity. I give tribute to it and a promise to keep my freedom out of fear’s reach. From this battle on, I choose to tend to the Heart.

Lyrics in this post: Mind vs. Heart by Nneka
Currently listening: Mind vs. Heart by Nneka
Image credit: speak2josie

Have you ever

"If my hands are fully occupied in holding on to something, I can neither give nor receive." - Dorothee Solle

I’ve been wondering through the woods today, and another circle around the grove got me confused enough to sit down and look up hopelessly. I could smell the thirst of pine and the doubt coming from my lack of direction. I blamed the sky for little guidance while I knew my meager navigation skills were to blame, and my loyal following of rare birds in lieu of trail signs, and my odd apathy toward the idea of safety.

How many haircuts does it take to get back on track to something higher, purer, more real?

* * *
Currently listening: Have You Ever by Brandi Carlile
Picture credit: Arcipello

Cloud chaser

I’ve been waiting for some water for such a long time here, I bet those sunflowers drying up in the backyard knew how I felt. Since the rain didn’t come get me, I’ll go get the rain.

...off to the Emerald City.
...can’t wait to get inspired again.

Picture credit: RedFraction

Letting your art roam free?

I am convinced more and more that words have a life of their own. They have alert minds, unique personalities and quite a rebellious nature, always plotting the most intricate ways of surprising their carriers.

The last poem in its final form (never really final through my lenses) contains only about 20 percent of the words or ideas with which I started. They become so independent once I let that first wave hit, that at certain points I feel little control over them. They develop – some to bloom and some to whither – all in their own ways, and I only add a stroke of a pen here and there to guide the lost sheep of the group; to direct them back when they wander too far off the edge of the paper. It’s as if they know what’s on my mind and they know where I’d like them to go, but they choose their distinctive paths toward that destination. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes they grow strong enough to change the destination itself, and I let them.

I have asked a couple of friends who paint about their creative process, and it seems amazingly similar. They start with a basic idea and then they let the art take its own course. I am yet to ask my friends who compose music. You know who you are!

Then again, maybe it is similar precisely because we are friends (or we are friends because we have similar spirits, whichever comes first, you get the point). Maybe other people do it differently. Do you normally know exactly what you are about to create?


I’m floating above what I left on the ground
Two shadows bent over a veil of rage
Deception is sweet, yet in it one is bound
To smile through the bars of a miniature cage
I followed the recipe found in your writing
The passion was simmered, the fury got steamed
The mixture of evils was wrongly exiting
An eye for an eye... Stop. Can I be redeemed?

On blogging

"Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time... The wait is simply too long."

 ~ Leonard Bernstein

You might have noticed I rarely step out of my creative writing shoes and post in any other way. It comes from trying to be consistent with one style, or be true to this blog. But then again you might have noticed I was gone for quite some time, and that definitely overwrites “being true to this blog” argument. So I wanted to put the style on pause, long enough to apologize to those of you who read the blog. I’ve been traveling, changing jobs, moving and I’m preparing to move again, and most importantly, I’ve been trying to leave some emotional baggage behind. I’ve been succeeding on some days and failing disastrously on others.

I’ve also had difficulties putting all of the above on paper, no matter how hard I tried. I keep going though a growing pile of drafts and nothing seems good enough. So I figured I’d just get over my editorial self and post whatever I have. Maybe once I’m though this rough patch, the words will start coming easier. In fact, as I was polishing today’s (way inadequate! – yells that annoying little censor in my head) post, I was suddenly flooded with ideas and jotted a lot of things down, which made for a creatively satisfying day. Again, sorry for being off the radar and – since you are still reading this :) – thanks for sticking with me.

Special thanks goes to Monique for her "I’m Just Going To Delete My Blog and Not Tell Anyone" post. It totally brought me back to reality. Blogging reality, that is :) Many news posts coming soon!

Love, peace & hope from me to you.

♥ ~ Jules

These months

I open the windows
It’s getting cold in here
Everything’s drying up
And the windows stay open
I used the word I know nothing of
I wanted to save, but I gave
I gave it away
And now
These months
These months are so still
These months
These months are so still

What’s in my head now
Needn’t be seen
Remember I called you
To see how you were
You hadn’t changed
Remember I ran into you in the dark
You hadn’t changed
And now in the leaves that drape the ground
The unwelcoming of your door
There’s a light that sees, I
I don’t think I love you anymore
But these months
These months are so still
These months
These months are so still

And there are times that I think about you
That I think surely still I must love you
Still know you…

~ Asha Ali

* * *

These months I am trying to snooze through an absolute inevitability of every new day without you. These thoughts are scattered across the room, surrounding me as I beg them for only some space, only some freedom to be. I keep organizing physical objects as if their awkward untouchable order will let me gather these emotions into some neat little pile of understanding, while they keep sliding and turning back into the shifting sand of which they were built.

These dreams march into my bed from the times and places where maybe one day I belonged, although it seems to have been a couple of lifetimes ago. These memories carry pain on their shoulders, the kind that fills my mind and leaves my heart empty. It’s only when thinking of you joins in however – or the absence of you right here in this room, where your shadow is needed by this lamp, and your ear by the song I am whispering, and your cheek by the brush of my arm, that accidental one, you know, in the midst of a dream – that I break down, and see the world spin, and lose myself in the dark, and never want to believe in light again. I lack you so much today, I get covered with cold and I drown in the feeling so overwhelming it sucks life out of me. It puts my strength into a shabby bag, the crude one with no holes in it, letting no sun reach my thinking.

I miss you today to the point where I’m determined to never miss you again. I am so tired of loving you, so, so tired. I wish you didn’t infiltrate me all the way to my blood, and dissolve in me, and uplift me to such heights only to drain me dry and leave me empty and throw me down so low, again and again.

I’d live for you, if only you were worth living for.
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