Before you continue reading please consider the depth of this personal material I’ve decided to post online for the public to read. This is the one post I want neither compliments nor criticisms on. This is me producing something written inside of me, if that makes sense — I am only sharing a secret with you, so to speak.
I wrote this non-rhythmic piece in my personal journal on May 21 of this year when I was feeling whatever I was feeling with concentrated immensity. And usually when I write things down, I’m capable of understanding my actions better, and they become almost engraved inside of me — they stabilize and become real. But ever since this entry, I haven’t really been able to fix or change these feelings, and maybe part of that is on me for not giving them enough attention.
I told myself that creating this space would act as a reflection of my present self and as a self-improvement machine, so that’s what I plan for it to continue to be. I hope by posting it I’d either reflect again but better this time and maybe improve, or I’d find some sort of solace on an online platform.
I had originally titled this thing A Poem About Sad Tears which makes this piece sound like a teenage heartthrob song about some pretentiously important breakup. That title was for me and my understanding only, because this isn’t really a poem and the content of whatever this is really has little to do with sad tears coming from me. It’s difficult to explain, but I have compartmentalizations in my brain that separate drama from realism from humor from joy from puerility, and I can use the same exact words to mean something completely different to me. I don’t know, it’s strange, but words are really important to me sometimes — too important I think. Anyways whatever, here’s the thing [it’s in poetic form to pretend to everyone that I know something about poems]:
Every once in a while my soul is wounded,
A hole rips through it like a teenager slashes through a failed paper,
And all the effort expended into building it dissipates,
I’m not sure whether it really disperses into oblivion,
But I recognize a loss of strength and I feel metaphorical pain,
There’s a section of my brain,
That very commonly yells at my soul for being so careless with its trials,
But my soul does not fight it,
It only nods, feels its wound, and sheds a single tear,
Another section of my heart pats my soul gently on the shoulder,
And reminds it that it can do better,
And my soul shrugs, fakes a weak smile, and speaks faintly,
‘I hope so,’ it says,
I watch quietly with tears welling and breath shortening,
I know that most of us are told that life is too short to be anxious,
Or that worrying fatuously only speeds up the transient process of living,
But recently — after re-exposing myself to old melancholies and anxieties —
I’ve carried a different perspective.
It’s probably not singular,
And most definitely not unheard of,
But for me it was a truth that passed by me unheeded,
As if it applied to everyone else’s soul but mine.
My events, situations, items and people,
Are not measured by my life’s longevity anymore,
Because that doesn’t lie within my hands,
What does though is the purpose of it —
The meaning of it.
And I know that philosophers would tell me that meaning is relative,
And that no coherence or balance,
Could exist with lives measured through seven billion meanings,
But faith doesn’t tell me that,
Religion says meaning is ONE — at least, my religion says so,
And so, many of my days I am sad,
I am filled with a different melancholy,
That separates the shortness of my life from its meaning,
Because most of us measure what’s right,
In accord with the whims of our desires,
And we sway from left to right with the moods of our selves,
And we don’t realize that the more we play, the greater the wounds,
And our souls watch us with tears in their eyes,
Because they didn’t deserve this,
Because they weren’t meant for this.
Because a sway to the left is more treacherous to me than being stuck,
And ambivalence — especially after glancing right — is a nightmare.
Because what we fail to realize with time is,
It wasn’t created to be short,
But it is one,
Time is purpose and it is one purpose,
Because when I listen to the soft sobs of my soul,
I’m overtaken with guilt,
I’m drenched in blood that I could have prevented from spilling,
All because I decided to let my self take the lead,
And what most of us don’t realize is presented at an end,
What most of us deemed as our own,
Was an axiom waiting to be explored.
So when our souls are ready to leave these bodies,
They fight to stay,
And they plea and they promise,
For even a single moment’s return to do other than play,
They swear to live better,
And to surrender to the one purpose,
They vow that if return be their fate,
That they would not ignore this,
And their bodies yell at them!
And they bid them good night!
Because these souls never did the surrendering,
That they were created for all right,
And what’s heart wrenching is that they will continue to plea,
But ‘Time has ended,’ will be all that they hear,
And when their voices have faded,
And their fate is met,
The souls will return to their Lord,
Whom had promised them an end.
And so when I listen to my soul,
I fear its tears,
Because if I let it swirl in meaning-less pools,
Then I have lost all my years.
My time is purpose,
And purpose is one—
To obey my Lord and to return to Him,
To surrender to the meaning,
To pray for the firmament,
And to believe in the shortness,
That I was created for in the first place.
I approach a Holy month and want nothing more than to filter myself from delusion and darkness. It hurts me sometimes, when I can hear my soul crying out loud. I don’t know, it’s not a confusing period or anything, it’s just one that lacks self-control. I’m sighing right now because I don’t know what more to say. Maybe listen to your soul one day and share with me what you hear. Maybe, like me, your soul can cry too.