Moutain

A walking poem I composed while I was over tired wondering around Meijer late at night

My head swelled. This pain and pleasure melted through me and I was at peace. At last, I thought, there was some peace in this surrender. All it took was the last breathless moments of the cruelest creature alive for me to understand.

I was swaying back and forth mercifully, empty and tired. My limbs barely worked. Yet I kept on the road, kept on by some hope of salvation that my oppressive mind convinced was not there.

I had made myself mad over it, wrapped in anxiety, loosened only by affection so often. The moon hung high in the sky, a saddening crescent being forced into darkness. Then I did not understand the power and beauty behind this thought, how the moon was so much like myself at that very moment. In recollection I think that I did not even register this important detail. The distance let out a loud "who" as an owl approached, I heard her wings hard against the night grasping for pray until disappearing again and leaving me to the slumbering woods.

I was wondering naked, as a new born babe with fresh wounds still on her soul from the life previous. I ironed for some cool grass to rest on, come what may to eat me, just the seconds of melting one with the earth, pure surrender.

That had always been my problem, I came to find out, the inability to just let go and forget control. Still I lived for the power, without it I was unable to breath. Being violently thrown back into the welcoming arms of a panic attack.

I felt dirty walking along this winding little path. Flashes of him flew before my eyes as he stomped against the rule of the over lord, feeding his ever need to be recognized. I let these thoughts pass over me and continued straining my eyes for my patch of rest.

Ahead I heard the faint sounds of tiny trickling. I, of course driven by thirst and exhaustion, pushed on more furverent to find a place of peace. Yet as I followed the sound, in hopes of getting closer, the sound drew fainter as it drew me further in.

As the sound finally ceased, I stopped briefly, and gathered my surroundings. A head a small doe stirred against her child. It seemed even in this venerable state, she knew I was no danger. In fact I noticed that the whole wood had treated me as a ghost. A silent specter, something unreal, only causing the hairs to stand up and then the feeling brushed away.

I pushed longingly on, forcing myself to believe I would see the dawning of tomorrow. Still I was unsure if tomorrow would come, if the promise of the sun was any promise at all. I wondered if the sun would refuse to rise tomorrow, if the gods had decided to keep the world in perpetual darkness. The madness of these thoughts were soothed under the forgetful memory of my last sighting of the scorching sun.

I had only grasped at things in my life before. Begged and pleaded to understand and mistook that passion for learned knowledge. I knew now that only a fool is certain, and I had decently played the fool. All I had thought to know was drying up before me like the phantom creek that lead me ever deeper into these woods.

The gods knew better.

The deepest depths of the human mind was no place for a child, and a child is what I was; what I am. Scarred and bloody as I was, still only fresh out of the womb in a ruthless ritual to knock us back to miserable ignorance. Contemplate understanding that was our only hope of slanted survival. Contentment. Surrender.

Further on I trotted, picking up speed now to almost a full run. I noticed little that the path had turned into a small incline of a hill. Faster and faster I pushed myself, the hill got steeper; nonetheless I pushed on harder more determined then ever. I had no idea what awaited the other side of the mountain. I could guess for what was behind me more woods, but from what I saw in front of me it was something different. Pushed on dangling thoughts of what it could be, an unknown force urging me on faster and harder.

Finally I reached the top. Drenched in desperate perspiration, I saw it. At the top of this mole hill a wondrous view of a forest of pines, a river, and the sun, the glorious sun. Promise fulfilled.