Just (Between The Raindrops)

Between the raindrops I can see a woman standing there. She looks lost, hope drained from her eyes. She has this crazy body, it isn't hard to see through her tight clothes, a shirt, small jacket and tight skirt, with heels. Just standing there in the rain. She isn't a hooker, she is smartly dressed, and there is a very good reason for her sadness. She finally found out the truth. She found out what many of us are searching for. Now, she is stood there, motionless, sobbing, her tears just more droplets of tragedy added to the world and its water.

Each raindrop (and the tears) falling is a man that died at war, needlessly. Each drop is a symbol of lost hope, of hurt, of what has vanished forever, and still she stands there. There is no way of avoiding the raindrops. There is no way out. The sound of the rain is the battle, the war, raging all around us, crashing on the roofs and gutters, bouncing off the street and trees, slapping at the windows.

She stands there, at her end, knowing why it all happens. Watching the raindrops, wishing somehow she could move between them. She is soaking wet, she knows all the answers, and there is nowhere to go. People came along and asked her what was wrong, what they could do to help, if she was okay, and still she sobbed, speaking no words to them. Before long, and after several people had given up, she herself understood the magnitude of the task - avoiding the raindrops - and having been there so long, motionless, with just the stream of seemingly neverending tears pouring from her eyes, she turned to stone. There she remained as a weeping statue.

Robert Is Precious

There you are, if you arrived there yet. I know not how long the journey takes. All of us have some beauty, and I saw you at times so precious. You were worth something, a question of value. Nephews and siblings and all those who do not understand. Well, what is to understand? All of us, made differently, and the human race so impatient and intolerant. Yes, every single one of us, we never do enough. I will miss your face, some of those moments we shared laughter. That is sometimes enough. It was, and I will take those fond thoughts with me where I go. The European Championships in 2008. My song 'Foxes and Wolves,' and your advice. Nobody ever sees me amount to anything, from their mortal bodies, alas, maybe from the upstairs heavenly viewing gallery. I can only hope so.

Robert, over there I hope some peace becomes you. I seek it out, for my own self, but I am not ready to find out if it finally arrives on the other side. I can only try to handle my earthly burden and make those who love me (unfortunately only a few) proud. More than that I must retain my core values and morals, and not let myself be corrupted as others are. But, I get lost in the words, this is about you. Safehouse find you, restore you to some place of dignity in hearts, and keep you in eternal resting peace. Love, it's all there, just let it lift you away from here. Ignore the probing implements, take the spirit, the soul, what is important. Set yourself free.

I won't ever forget the minutes and how they ticked. Did I tell you about Robert? Maybe I should have mentioned him by now. I guess I only want to say one thing really. I send these words to him, whoever else reads it might find some gentle grace herein. Did I tell you about that man? His name was Robert. Robert is precious.

Birdsong

So, here we are again, I want to sing to you, from the heart beneath my breast. There are so many natural sounds here. The birds are ever calling, looking for a next feast, moving in and out of breezes. Some silence broken by a voice, fitting it perfectly, filling my imagination. I always believed, I don't expect that to alter. The next thing to approach will always be the greatest. We sing and love and dance, even if it cannot be seen. I open wings and close them around you, holding you tight for my dreams. Welcome to the birdlands, where we all belong to the music of hope.

Joy Division Days

It's a Joy Division morning. I don't know where it came from. That young man, Ian Curtis, forever young, never leaving us alone. I don't know where it came from, but he is swimming in my ears. Hard not to think about what he was, where he ended up, how far gone it all was. The hopelessness of genius, the frequency of that. The wife, the child, wailing, searching for daddy in dreams, all of us pining for more music. That is what there is, colossal, neverending, darkening corners, somehow warming us. We are left here, not knowing which is brighter. The loss of control, the isolation and the abattoir of thoughts, they couldn't sleep safely. Are we resting in peace, living or dead? Well, who can ever really know?

The Alien ArtForm

It's just as I predicted, days spent in limbo. Tomorrow we shall away from here, temporarily, to set foot in Germany. I'd rather not go too deep, so I slip into dreamland once more...

There people are slowly making their way to no particular place, there is something alien like about them, they are smoother, greener, not propelled by money and fortune, they know what they have. They absorb the days, the nature and the life at every turn, not building cities, up towards the sky, reflecting on how broken they feel at the end of it. 

They blend into the trees, at one with the beauty of God's earth, whatever God may be. There are clouds here, some divine wind blowing through the trees and bodies. It's all happening here, just without the corruption, the beings are motivated by love here, not other flawed concepts, and the world moves slower and the hearts are all fuller and the children sing happily, and, of course...

...i wake up after a while. It was nice to know how things could be though. If only we would learn from the many mistakes we make. 'If' and 'only.' Two words of great sadness and hope.