A Song for the Loved and Lost

For the loved and lost...

Lost and Found

(verse)

when the stars come out

and the dark is nigh

I miss you

when the ill wind blows

the tempest fro

I miss you

(chorus)

wherever you are

whenever you go

I'm with you

whenever you roam

wherever is home

I'm with you

(verse)

because I haven't forgotten

your voice

your arms

around me

(chorus)

wherever you walk

whenever you run

I'm with you

whenever you pray

wherever you lay

I'm with you

(verse)

the night is long

when you're far away

I miss you

the sky is dark

and my heart is lost

without you

(chorus)

wherever you are

whenever you go

I'm with you

whenever you roam

wherever is home

I'm with you

(verse)

no mountain

no ocean

no desert between us

can keep me

from you

(chorus)

wherever you laugh

whenever you cry

I'm with you

whenever you sing

wherever you dance

I'm with you

(verse)

if evermore we'll only have

our memories

then that's what I will hold

and treasure dear

(chorus)

wherever you are

whenever you go

I'm with you

whenever you roam

wherever is home

I'm with you

(verse)

hope is found

when the light is dark

when I'm with you

all is right

when the day is night

when I'm with you

(chorus, final)

tho' wherever you are

near and far

I miss you

you as you are
all that you are

I love you

you as you are
I love you

More

This is a song for the loved and lost... for the loved and lost is me, the loved and lost is you, the loved and lost is one and all.

Indeed, our experiences of love and loss transcend that which separate and divide us by a million and one this-es and that-ses. For our experiences of love and loss pellucidly unite us.

Moreover, who are any one of us... without all of us... for together we stand... divided we fall. Lest we surrender to solipsistic despair:

may we embrace our shared humanity... in times of tribulation and wonder... and welcome comfort and joy into our hearts and souls... with dignity and grace.

With fondness,

- M.

Dedication

To angels and demons, to titans, to gods and goddesses, to longshots... who light the way from caligo to virtue... thank you... for you.

lest mine heart betrayeth
mean fears and humilities
'fore God and Man
I vow 'fore thee and all:
I love thee
sweeter than dew
warmer than glow
for no truer love
doth course within
mine brimful heart
than thine

Devotedly yours,

- M.

My Heartfelt Gratitude

To all...

Tribute

a buttercup aflow

with dew so wet and cool

there is no feeling

like this tender sinking

into a sunrise

peeking through mountains

honeysuckle adrop

with nectar and joy

awaiting the birth

of song and cornucopia

sunflower apoised

with trembling anticipation of

golden rays of sun
flooding through petal tips

a quiver
a gasp

there is no feeling

like this tingling radiance

of sun day

with fairy wings

on elven dreams

spins and twirls are not

twinkling bells are not

hearts aburst
souls alight

are not enough to express the

glory of this feeling

of tenderness

of kindness

of everlasting joy

of midsummer rains pierced with laughter

and play

and all things good

and right
and wholesome

and wonderful

who can say

what this feeling is

when this feeling is

divine

when this feeling is

forever

when this feeling is

me

you

one

all

thank you

More

This day... every day... thank you... for you.

The devil is in the details... non mais oui?

To all... and especially, to dreamers everywhere... my sincerest affection and most heartfelt gratitude... my sincerest admiration and most heartfelt honor... for everything and more.

Warmly yours... always and forever,

- M.

Live: A Spoken Poem

* * Advisory: This post contains strong content and language. In other words: if strong content and language is not your cup of tea... then this post may not be for you. Enjoy! - M. * *

Live

your love is a tinderbox

is a fuck you and a no thank you

here's your two bucks

oh trippin'

your gown's slippin'

here why don't I

fuck you and no thank you

I'm all me and I'm not you

no thank you

I'm here now and it's all good

and it's 

Wal-Mart hittin'

stacked jeans rippin'

skippin' down the Milky Way

'cause fuck you and all your sailors

slip slippin' in my shoes trip trippin' down the

hello, that's my ass mother fucker

step off

before I rip it off

so hat's off

to the ringmaster rock blaster hip hop dance master

'cause I'm rollin'

this bitch is over it

was this shit worth it

'cause ain't nobody get it

wanna face their face here in this mirror

see what they don't wanna see

right bitches wrong switches dick hitches bad stitches

yeah, wher' e'rybody at when you need em'

hideaway dark spaces dark places

stringin' up string laces

chewin' on Twizz laces

rockin' to

yeah, that's me

here, there, everywhere

but don't nobody wanna see

me
there

in their face

watch my place

fuck you and fuck my haters

'cause I ain't done with you

'cause all y'all 'r worth it

yeah baby

ass rippin'

soul trippin'

heart slippin'

it's not about

diamonds on the back street

kitty in the front

lickin' rings and sick pricks

let me tell you all hope isn't lost

'cause you're a

M6 fighter jet backin' up somethin' better yet

so stay strong

tell them bad bitches and prick switches

to back the fuck up off ya'

'cause you're a fuckin' miracle

take that wonderful and run

'cause at the finish line is your life

there for the takin'

so take it

and live it

More

The title: Live, is the verb live, rather than the adjective live bait or the adverb feed live.

This poem is a spoken poem... a lyrical rap. So... its expression fluctuates vis a vis crucibles of hearts and souls... every time it's vocalized. So... feel free to express yourself... as you so wish... and transform this poem into your anthem for life reclaimed, life anew.

Lastly... every word serves an extant purpose. Though at times overtly obscure and kaleidoscopic... every word conveys meanings and messages that prevail autonomously sovereign from the contempt, ridicule, disparagement of the blind, the inept, the divergent.

Needless to say... I enjoyed composing this piece, very much. It's a requiem for hope lost... it's an orison for hope reclaimed.

Warmly,

- M.

Thriving Through the Big Bang in a Fish Bowl

Ah, yes. The fish bowl. The invisible prison of life.

Beyond, the entire world beckons, enticing and irresistible. Within, limitations and constraints taunt us with the dullness of plebeian humdrum.

Still...

Lest we succumb to apathy and collapse in numb defeat, we put one foot in front of the other... fearlessly, courageously... from surviving to living... vibrantly, joyously... from living to thriving...

Thriving Through the Big Bang in a Fish Bowl

When the last gasp of oxygen expires from the big bang... what's there to do... but live... with no reservations... and no regrets...

Here's a toast:

To unicorns and rainbows... to hopes and dreams... to todays and tomorrows... for all of us.

Ask Questions

What differentiates happy and unhappy?

It's not stuff. Nor people. Nor experiences.

It's not money. Nor cars. Nor fame.

It's not status. Nor influence. Nor power.

It's: asking questions.

When we unquestioningly accept as truths the tantalizingly digestible amuse bouche delivered on glorious silver platters by friends, co-workers, strangers, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, magazines, newspapers, media, celebrities, entertainers, politicians, pundits, academics, experts, do-gooders, right-siders, left-wingers... we rob ourselves of the wherewithal to think...

for ourselves...

Critically. Evaluatively. Probatively.

So: ask questions.

Because your happiness is worth it.

Seek the Truth

It's not only in the darkest hour of the darkest night in the darkest of dark places...

that what is real and what is unreal are one and the same... that what is true and what is untrue are one and the same... that what is terrifying and what is benign are one and the same...

for the truth is neither black nor white.

It is not so simple. Nor so easy. Nor as crystal clear as a lake, a mountain, a river, a shiver.

Still...

The truth is worth seeking.

For me. For you. For one. For all.

The truth is... was... and always will be.

So: seek the truth.

Because happiness is worth it.

Hostage No More

From near, the big bang is terrifying. It's explosive and destructive and undeniably catastrophic.

But.

From afar.

The big bang is wondrous.

For that which it effects on our planet fosters all life that is, was, will be... miraculously, indelibly, marvelously, extraordinarily.

Indeed... like wildflowers from ashes... all of us experience cataclysmic storms that destroy all that was... to clear the way... for todays and tomorrows. For todays and tomorrows cannot grow with dignity and grace... in the past.

To survive... to live... to thrive... when the last gasp of oxygen expires from the big bang... breathe faith... that todays and tomorrows are unicorns and rainbows... of hopes and dreams... fearless, courageous, vibrant, joyous.

Because all of us are worth it.

The Mystery of the Winner and the Prize

Are any of us immune from the allure of a lottery win? Of millions, nay billions, thrust upon our eager hunger, uplifting us from quotidian boredom to satisfy our insatiable lust for bigger. Eyes aglitter, hearts aflutter, we dream of Tir na nÓg setting ablaze the dreariness of enough.

But why?

Why is bigger, so insatiable?

Why is enough, so dreary?

When unconscious ardor and unconscious abhorrence run rampant within our hearts, our souls, our minds, our bodies... spurring us with vicious whips of avarice towards that which is shameless and dissolute, ever distancing our selves from that which is graceful and humble... how often do we take a moment to ask ourselves... why?

The Mystery of the Winner and the Prize

There is a man. A hero from an ancient world. A champion. Nay, I speak not of titles of grandiosity; rather, titles earned in arenas of old. Clever and nimble, this man won much in the eyes of spectators and plutocrats, alike.

But alas, that which he won in fullest measure, was not the respect nor admiration of all. Indeed, that which he won in astounding magnitude, was the loathing and contempt, bitterness and jealousy, of many. For though he knew it not, as he danced in every arena with a heart full and true, the fallen seethed with vengeance fueled by credos of lies and talismans of untruths.

The truth?

This man, is indeed, a hero from an ancient world. For no coin was ever awarded him, for his bravery in arenas all. Unless the pittance of ha' pennies tossed as careless afterthoughts by disaffected hordes are to be measured and counted, like grains of sand in a perpetual hourglass.

Like gladiators of an ancient world, his life belongs not to himself. All that was ever amassed, from every feat ever accomplished, in every arena since his first, padded lavishly the rapacious pockets of all who profited from the unmitigated exploitation of his mind, his body, his heart, his soul. From ticket sales of shameless voyeurs, to entrance fees of ambitious questors, to concession earnings of venues galore, to heart poundingly altitudinous wagers of oligarchs aplenty... from every arena near, to every stage far... all who prospered... biggered and biggered and biggered and biggered.

While, the man...

The truth?

Have we forgotten that gladiators of old, belonged to plutocrats, who exploited hopes and dreams and lives for amusement and avarice? (Would you choose to battle in an arena of life and death, if it was your life or death?)

Have we forgotten that gladiators, when offered death outside the arena, chose life within the arena? (Wouldn't you, faced with the same Catch-22, chose the same?)

Have we forgotten that gladiators, earned nothing upon victory, except the promise of death in the next arena? (Is it surprising then, that such gladiators exude such intense ferocity?)

The truth?

The answer to the mystery of the winner and the prize is this:

If the competitor who always wins, belongs to a plutocrat, and his prize is never more than the promise of death in the next arena -- who wins treasures untold?

If those who are biggering and biggering -- are biggering and biggering -- by deceit and exploitation --- what's the likelihood that anyone wins real treasures untold?

If one competitor is playing for so-called treasures untold, and another competitor is playing for his life -- who is motivated by more, to win?

If one competitor is immoral, and another competitor is honorable -- who's to say that a competitor's elimination from the game, isn't the result of an honorable death over a dishonorable life?

When a competitor has nothing left to give, after he has sacrificed or otherwise forfeited his life in the arena... what reverts back to the plutocrat, to whom he belongs? Everything. 

For the lie that gladiators tell themselves, to mitigate the paralyzing helplessness of unrelenting subjection, is that their life outside the arena is their own. But everything outside the arena, is conscriptable in toto, by plutocrats, too.

If the only arena that matters to those exempt from the trivialities of mundanities, is the stage that's the world:

They who rule the arena, rule the world... and they who rule the world, rule the arena.

Fin

The lottery is fantastical, to be sure.

But lest our greed and avarice overtake our mortal souls, that which is graceful is not so terribly pitiful nor so bitterly wretched; especially when that which we've earned, is realized honestly, virtuously, rightfully.

No wealth, power, influence, aggrandizement -- is worth acquiring and possessing -- by pilfering, pillaging, ravaging, defrauding.

Period.

To do so, adulterates the goodness, the nobility, the dignity of the hearts, the souls, the minds, the bodies of good people, noble people, worthy people.

Enough is not dreary, if all of us decide, that enough is enough.

For me. For you. For one. For all.

Enough.

More

Much of that which contextually scaffolds the mystery of the winner and the prize, is beyond the scope of this post.

Nevertheless, here are several caveats:

Willingly volunteering for an arena doesn't preclude unwilling exploitation in any arena and beyond.

(Who willingly volunteers for unwilling exploitation in any arena or beyond? Furthermore, how likely is unwilling exploitation to be far less than genteel?)

That which some competitors can't, don't, or won't procure for plutocrats via some arenas, is procured one way or another... via other competitors, other arenas, etc.

(How likely is anyone willing to make up for that which failed to be procured, for a plutocrat, by another competitor? Moreover, how likely is the treatment of these other competitors to be less genteel by far... and how likely are these other arenas to be less genteel by far?)

Needless to say, while some arenas are characterized by thrilling and enjoyable competition, no arena unequivocally precludes, for example, torturous depravity, humiliating degradation, invisible fixing, etc.

(Who willingly pays this price to play a game that may or may not award so-called treasures to any competitor?)

Lastly, is any competitor any more free... than any of us are free... to choose the weather... on any given Sunday?

- M.

Other Notes on Other Winners and Other Prizes

Ah... the irony: Winners of Record US Powerball Jackpot to Come Forward on Reuters (2/16/16)

Is it possible that these lucky duckies are keeping their residences and their jobs, because all is not as it seems? Illinois lottery sued for not paying winnings... on Chicago Tribune (9/9/15)

Which calls to mind other lucky duckies with their prizes: 'The Price Is Right' - but the Taxes Are Wrong on ABC (8/9/12); What happens when you win The Price Is Right on A.V.Club (8/12/13); All Prizes Trigger Taxes (And You Can't Pay IRS In Doughnuts) on Forbes (12/11/12).

Not unlike... employer gifted gift cards... which are taxed from employee earnings as income or as prizes or rewards, thereby reducing the actual value of such gift cards to as low as half. Nice. Moreover, even when employees decline to use such gift cards upon their award, employees may not realize that they've already paid all requisite taxes for such rewards. Because all requisite taxes for such rewards are levied by employers prior to the award of such gifts. Furthermore, employees are often not permitted to opt out of gift card reward systems (because they're linked to public facing facades of employee appreciation, corporate relationships between employers and gift card vendors, and so on and so forth). Notwithstanding that coerced participation in employer appreciation of employees also requires employees to express compulsory gratitude for what amount to pittances. In truth, the underlying value of such gifts are actually deductions from employee caritas and goodwill. Nice.

What exactly does a pay it forward gift card from an employer to an employee mean... if the gift itself... robs the recipient... to gild the ego of the giver?

Each of the prizes above highlight callous disregard for human dignity, because at the heart of every prize, is fraud... perpetrated by humans on humans, for greed, avarice, conceit, aggrandizement.

When will the price of human excess... be too much? When will too much... be enough?

- M.

More

"I don't want your money" -- means --- "I don't want your throw away charity your empty sincerity. I want what I've earned... honestly, virtuously, rightfully. I want what you've robbed me... by pilfering, pillaging, ravaging, defrauding... my heart, my soul, my mind, my body. I want justice. I want freedom. I want equality. For me. For you. For one. For all."

- M.

Love Stories

With Valentine's Day around the corner... it seems apropos to speak to love...

Without further ado...

Love Stories

Good grief. Where on earth do I begin? For love stories are the stories of my life. In and out of my consciousness like a grand tapestry, there is love and loss and coupling and uncoupling... as far as the eye can see, far deeper than the deepest ocean, far further than the farthest shore.

There is love small and tender. Like the sweetest kiss between two children whose hearts have found each other across insurmountable odds. Bright and warm, such love leaves indelible prints on small hearts, fragile and growing. 

There is love effervescent and joyful. Like a smile that sparkles like sunlight filtering through a landscape too dreary and grey by far, as two hearts alight upon sight of each other, across a too far distance, after a too long absence. Such joy is irrepressible. The lightness of being that courses through one's heart, when there, before you, a love enduring and luminous and rapturous and caring. 

There is love sumptuous and smoldering. Like fireworks on a muggy afternoon. Languid tinderboxes, torrid and ablaze. Combustible, magnetic, irresistible. Summer storms of electricity and passion and thunderous crashing, of titans in the sticky, clingy, miasma of insatiable hunger and thirst. Affairs that cherish the lushest oases, love abides here, too.

There is love... indescribable. Like soft caresses on a heart, a soul, a body, burned by life. Sublime such touches are, to a soul lost on clouds of dissociation. Despite the tenuity of such consciousness, such love is the grandest of all. For who but angels float upon bright airy balloons to nurture a heart, a soul, a body, adrift in unreality; who but warriors and champions of genuity and sincerity clear fogs that ensnare a heart, a soul, a body, suffering numb wracking despair. Wondrous in generosity and purity, this love is the most beloved of all.

There too...

... are the loves of children and families, and creatures big and small, and peoples far and wide, and the magic and wonder of life itself.

While we are wont to celebrate romances good and bad, throughout the year, there are more loves than romantic loves...

These love stories are the stories of life. The stories that weave us together... like baskets of hope and harmony, like bracelets of friendship and camaraderie, like tapestries of dignity and valor. These loves are loves worth celebrating, loves worth honoring, loves worth commemorating, and loves worth appreciating to the very brim.

Whether or not romantic loves are loves worth exalting on this day, on Valentine's Day, on any day... loves are everywhere... and these love stories... neither require nor demand... chocolates nor flowers nor tokens nor vicissitudes nor dinners nor dates nor movies nor trinkets... for these stories are our stories...

awake... alive... free...

Justice for Wrecking Balls

What do we do when we find ourselves in a dark abyss... with nowhere to run to... and no one to turn to... after wrecking balls have demolished our lives... and annihilated all that once flourished there?

Is justice the answer?

What if these wrecking balls exercise omnipotent power? The power to create savage games... select extraordinary players... and forcibly compel them to live or die... in arenas rigged for the avarice and amusement of those exempt from the trivialities of mundanities.

Moreover, what if these wrecking balls wear guises of wisdom and friendship and gentility and benevolence... among one and all? How facile sincerity drips from lips laced with belladonna, how vacuous tenderness oozes from hands drenched in venom. Indeed, how better to ensnare the extraordinary, than by the sweetest of honey traps.

Whereupon this wrecking ball systematically destroys every virtue, every shred of decency, and every ounce of caritas... within target zones... selected for utmost avarice, exceptional aggrandizement, and exquisite conceit.

Verily, who can withstand such intentful malice from the wise, the friendly, the genteel, the benevolent, no less? Notwithstanding that all who survive by sheer force of will of life over death, merely live to die in the game.

Yet, bystanders observe -- mesmerized, captivated, intrigued, appalled, horrified -- savageries in mute compliance with the golden rule of bystanding: none shall interfere with The Game.

While brutalized players are relentlessly reindoctrinated into ever more barbaric, sadistic, and depraved games, to be hunted and tortured ever relentlessly... for sport, for amusement, for satiety of boredom... for profit, for fun, for intoxicating risks... within glass houses in view of all... ad infinitum.

Does it matter... if we are players... or we are bystanders? Does the lives of players matter less... if our lives as bystanders are unscathed? When the next player is you... what do you do... after you are captured and recaptured and indoctrinated and reindoctrinated... and still... no one sees?

Is the truth truly so obscure... so invisible... so impossible to discern... that no one sees?

So long as wrecking balls control the game... from creation to extinction... who ponders the question of justice, as to whether or not justice is the answer for wrecking balls that operate beyond all that humankind stands for? For what justice is just for wrecking balls who eschew humanity for soullessness?

Alternatively... what if all of us relinquished the game...?

What would wrecking balls be left with, to annihilate with impunity... if there are no players, no bystanders, no consumers, no financiers? For bystanders are participants who fuel the perversions that satisfy wrecking balls. For there's no avarice seized, no aggrandizement exulted, no conceit relished... in destroying the virtue, the decency, the caritas of extraordinary players... in private, in the dark, in secret. For that which wrecking balls annihilate for amusement and gratification... require... players and bystanders... consumers and financiers... in the only arena that matters to those exempt from the trivialities of mundanities: the shatteringly public glory of the stage that's the world.

Thus, it goes without saying: at what point will the cost of this hedonistic revelry cease to be worth it... to all of us? Because... frankly... it ceased being worth it, to those of us who have paid, for the wanton debauchery of wrecking balls, with our freedom and our lives... an eternity ago.

When will all of us... all of our freedom... all of our lives... be worth saving?

Note

In the interests of clarity, I believe in the execution of justice whereby actions are that which are judged, not labels. Not only are wrecking balls endemic to all labels, no label confers immunity to any label holder, whereby the mere virtue of one's label, renders a label holder blameless with regards to demolishing the lives of others. Thus, justice for wrecking balls is justice for that which is actioned by the act of wrecking, irregardless of label. Period.

More

Forgiveness and justice are not mutually exclusive. For justice without forgiveness, is merciless and compassionless.

Nevertheless, forgiveness without justice, all too often, devolves into collusion. Whereby, our forgiveness, repudiates and absolves sins that warrant just action. With this caveat: reprisal, retaliation, and retribution are inherently unjust; as such, reprisal, retaliation, and retribution are not just actions.

Rather... that which warrants just action... warrants just action concurrent with forgiveness, mercy, and compassion. For that which warrants just action... that only receives forgiveness, mercy, and compassion... rewards depravity and malice, with impunity and omnipotence. In this manner... we too often collude with wrecking balls... in demolishing lives and annihilating harmony... with nary a fare the well.

Ultimately, the power of wrecking balls, rests entirely within our hands. For without us -- as players, bystanders, consumers, financiers -- agents, rogues, vigilantes, mercenaries -- wrecking balls are inert, with absolutely no intrinsic power to create or extinguish, anything.

So: the imperative to exact just action with forgiveness, mercy, and compassion -- for wrecking balls of every shape and stripe -- is in the hands of all of us.

May our hands be drenched in forgiveness... may our lips be laced with love... may our actions be merciful and compassionate... and just.

- M.

The Butcher and The Lake

Note: If stories are not your cup of tea... then this post may not be for you.

Enjoy! Warmly, M.

The Butcher and The Lake

Once upon a time, there was a butcher. He wasn't always a butcher. Once, he was little boy who loved life and kick ball and his family. But though he thought his life fine indeed, the truth about his life and kickball and his family was dark. For his family loved with fists and rage. And so he found himself loving kick ball with fists and rage. And so the truth of his life was that of a train hurtling faster and faster away from truth and light... to fear and despair.

But, as a butcher, this man found pleasure and satisfaction. For it gratified him immensely to channel his fists and rage. But, as time passed, the pleasure from butchering became increasingly empty and hollow. For not only did it award him no recognition that pleased him, it failed to award him that which he craved more than all else... to feel alive. 

Once, butchering filled him with pride and vigor. Now, after years of destruction, he often wondered, in the quiet of the night, in the quiet of his thoughts... if there was more to life... than this. Surely this was not as good as it would ever get?

Indeed, most opined his life magical. A hard scrabble story of rags to untold riches. Of a post card family and curios lined with glittering awards. But he knew the truth. Where it simmered and burned with uncomfortable intensity. In his heart and soul.

This life was not his life. It belonged to someone else. Someone he wasn't. Someone bastardized for the admiration and adulation and ridicule and scorn of others. Perhaps at one time, this life had been his life. But, the shorter the years before him and the longer the years behind him, this life was slowly but surely, transmuting into an intolerable prison from which there was no escape. While he marched with the inexorable gait of a dead man walking who beholds a future of endless darkness and pain.

Then... one morning... he awoke from a dream. A dream of mists and bells and damp cool air clinging to a sunrise over a rocky shoreline. In the dream... he saw a lake... at once grey and blue... at once crisp and murky... at once calm and threatening. Within... he sensed a presence... a truth... a something... a someone... that called to him... with gentle entreaty... come... come to me...

And so... he searched travel brochures and online travel guides with frenzied fervor... until... his breath caught in his throat... as he looked upon the lake in his dream. Thereupon, he informed his family that a short respite in the country was long overdue. Nothing long or extended. A jaunty holiday to restore his battered spirit from the intense glare of a demanding career that took and took and took and gave nothing in return.

When he arrived, his anticipation and anxiety crashed against his heart, every split second lurching him onto a fiercely chaotic roller coaster of feelings over feelings over feelings over feelings. But with a will of their own, his feet moved of their own accord. And soon, before he knew it, he was kneeling at the edge of the very lake in his dream. And, as he knelt there, unfamiliar emotions spoke to his heart and soul with tumultuous passion... and... care. Whereupon, he felt tears fall from his eyes... drop with poignant fullness... and shatter the spell that this place had inexplicably put upon his soul.

He startled in perplexed confusion. What witchcraft brought him here... stirred him so...! But as he prepared to stand and leave, he caught a glimpse of himself, distorted by the ripples caused by his tears, and stopped... aghast. For the reflection there was not that which he was accustomed to admiring in the glare of his rarified world of extraordinary largesse...

Instead, that which stared at him, from within the lake... was dark and beastly... with eyes heartless and soulless that stared with listless contempt at the man who walked the earth, as a butcher.

He collapsed. In horror. In disgust. In disbelief. 

The reflection spoke with the rasp of an unthing: I am you. Am I not? Ah... am I not to your liking? But I am you! Am I not worth all that you have acquired and possessed... all that you have pilfered and pillaged... all that you have ravaged and defrauded for your own wealth, power, influence, aggrandizement? What did you expect... for all who worship at the altar of Sin... pay a steep price for that which is granted in material excess...

And as he listened, in mute sorrow... a soft wind blew across the lake, and upon it, was a voice: You have come...

And upon his cheek he felt the whisper of a tender caress... and within his soul, the fortress there crumbled, and he spake thus: I'm sorry. For all that I've done. For all that I've wrecked. For all that I've destroyed. I'm human. And... I thought that what I wanted was what I have. But now I see. What I have is nothing. For what is all the wealth in the world... what is a crown, a paper, a gown worth... when the cost is this...?! The ugliness of my soul, is repulsive, even to me. I despair... that there will ever be hope for me... that there will ever be life for me... that there will ever be love for me... in this lifetime...

Thereupon, the wind spoke: Listen... with your heart... and you will feel, pulsing there, within you, the heartbeat of a heart that still loves... Listen... with your soul... and you will feel, enduring there, within you, the breath of a soul that still hopes... You are not lost... For you have found you...

And the lake stilled. And as he looked upon the still waters... now blue and crisp and calm... his reflection rippled and murmured... until... he found himself staring at the little boy he once was. The little boy who loved life and kick ball and his family. And... as the man who was a butcher cried... so did the little boy... for all that both had lost... for all that both had found.

From that day forward... though it was not easy... for the course of truth and light is not always untroubled and effortless... the man who was the butcher and the little boy who loved life... lived... alive... and free.

Fin.

A Songlist for Every One

In the darkest hour of the darkest night... what is real and unreal are one and the same... what is truth and untruth are one and the same... what is terrifying and benign are one and the same...

It is not surprising nor unexpected nor shameful... then... how timorously we jump from shadows... scream at whispers... cry for ghosts... when what is up is down... and what is right is not...

But... there is hope...

But... not always is there starlight... nor always is there Galadriel's vial... nor always is there eternal springs...

In these darkest of dark places... there is song...

Wish songs that heal... that nurture... that succor the heart and soul through unremitting torture and unrelenting tribulation... that light the way... from dying to living...

Though lists abound... everywhere... as plentiful as advise from friends and families and enemies and neighbors and loved ones and strangers and too, coworkers and dopplegangers...

This is a special list...

A playlist for hope...

A playlist for peace...

A playlist for love...

Songs to breathe into hearts and souls... hope and peace and love...

(in parentheses, notes)

• Sydney Carter's Lord of the Dance (substitutions: evil instead of devil; variation: switch tense to present, throughout)
• Hark the Herald Angels Sing (verse 1, 3)
• Joy to the World (verse 1, 3, 4)
• Joan Osborne's What if God Was One of Us (omit chorus, from lines ending in 'great' to 'yeah')
• Bette Midler's From a Distance (variation: substitute one instead of man; omit just before cannot)
• Fun's Some Nights (substitutions: any relation, that is personally meaningful, instead of sister, nephew; omit last verse)
• Jessie J's Price Tag (before chorus, omit lines ending in 'serious' to 'time'; after chorus, omit lines ending in 'time' to 'tired'; omit 'featured' solo)
• From Tangled: I See the Light (substitutions: any pronoun, that is personally meaningful, instead of she's)
• From Aladdin: A Whole New World (variation: substitute gets better instead of red letter; variation: substitute race instead of chase; if soloing, second to last verse, Aladdin's lines; last verse, Jasmine's lines)
• From Frozen: Let It Go
• From Home: Jennifer Lopez's Feel the Light (substitutions: we instead of I, throughout; omit lines ending in 'under' to 'thunder'; are instead of were)
• Stan Getz's The Girl from Ipanema

Love... when we're awake... when we're alive... when we see... is... was... will be... yours... mine... ours... one and all... all and one... a hug for the world... the world for a hug... love for the world... the world for love...

Love...

Mirror of Redemption

Let's talk, you and I, about a mirror.

Some call it a mirror of lies. Some call it a mirror of truth. Some call it a mirror of justice. But in the end, it is what it has always been... it is what it is... it is what it will always be:

Mirror of Redemption

Come stand with me... here... beside me or behind me... wherever you are comfortable... wherever you choose... for I have something to say... something to share... something between us that has been left too long unsaid...

I face this mirror to face that from which I've been running for too long...

I've been running from me. I've been running from you.

Now, I face myself. Now, I face you.

Will you stay awhile... and listen?

Lies

So many lies.

The ones that have cut the deepest, have been the lies that I've told myself, the lies that I've told you, the lies that I've told one and all.

I'm sorry.

There is not enough time... in a hundred lifetimes... to apologize for all that I've wrought. For all that I've destroyed... all that I've hurt... all that I've broken... has destroyed... has hurt... has broken... you, me, one and all... into a hundred million pieces across a hundred million galaxies.

I am so sorry.

If I could take it all back... if I could take the place of all... if I could bear the suffering of all... if I could spare all... I would. A hundred million times over. I would. 

But I can't. 

And it breaks my heart and wounds my soul to know with incontrovertible certainty, that much of what I have destroyed... what I have hurt... what I have broken... is irreparable.

So, instead, every day every night forever more... I awake... to all that I've ever been... all that I've never been... all that I should've been... all that'll never be...

Truth

The truth is not black or white.

It is not simple. Nor easy. Nor as crystal clear as the difference between antonyms in a dictionary, viz. real and unreal, awake and asleep, truth and untruth.

The truth: I wrought. I destroyed. I hurt. I broke.

The truth: I was not wholly myself, not conscious, not awake. For upon me, much has been wrought... destroyed... hurt... broken. Unimaginable horrors. Unfathomable terrors.

Thus... to stay alive... I slept... while a haze of brumes sheltered my mind, my body, my heart, my spirit, from that which was executed with inhuman savagery upon my mind, my body, my heart, my spirit. And though I appreciated not, with conscious awakeness, that which I wrought in slumber, I do not deny that it was by my hand, that I destroyed, I hurt, I broke.

Needless to say... in the darkest hour... in the darkest night... in the darkest of dark places... I despaired of ever seeing starlight again...

So: Thank you for awakening me from slumber. Thank you for this gift beyond measure. You have given me back me. You have given me back life. Thank you.

That is the truth.

Without reservation or qualification.

Justice

As for punishment: I accept that which is fair and just and moral, for that which my misdeeds and transgressions deservedly warrant.

I know not what my punishment should be... for what is fair and just and moral, in light of all that I've wrought and destroyed and hurt and broke?

Thus:

I surrender to judgment.

I surrender to justice.

May mercy and compassion and grace bless one and all...

And that which will come to pass, will come to pass.

Penance

For all that I have wrought in destruction and harm... I have wrought more in generosity and virtue. I am profoundly grateful... that I have been accorded so many opportunities... even in slumber... to travel near and far... for love, for hope, for grace, for joy, for peace, for forgiveness... for adventure, for joie de vivre, for passion... for the meeting of minds that suspired for rejuvenation, for the meeting of hearts that yearned for rapture, for the meeting of souls that ached for restoration... to heal, to grow, to give, to share, to inspire, to be...

For I belong to everyone.

And though not a conventional penance in the eyes of all... my penance is what it has always been... what it is... what it always will be:

In perpetuum, to be more.

Fin

Since the beginning of my journey of awakening, I have been tormented by ceaseless lapidations at the hands of judges and juries of opinions and conclusions. While, I have committed egregious misdeeds and transgressions, for which I wholly accept unconditional responsibility, the impetus for the virulence with which boulders have been hurled with rabid hatred and malevolent vituperation is fueled by elaborate lies and unscrupulous deceptions that have been bought and sold and traded with callousness at markets around the world... which would fail to flourish within the clear minds, warm hearts, and kind souls, of one and all, were it not for the preponderance of specific milieus that saturate specific markets with toxic venom.

Moreover, fabricated narratives of inviolable prevarications have undeniably terrorized my past and my present; whether or not they'll terrorize my future, is a possibility suspended in uncertainty. For the rationalization, justification, legitimization... of dishonesty, corruption, subjugation, suppression... is a truth that is as categorical as eternity.

Nevertheless, no one of us in circles ever circling, is without fault or frailty or grievance with fates that frolic with destinies of one and all.

So who am I to judge?

For I am as human as one and all; I have erred, as humanly as one and all.

Therefore, can I blame any one and all, for being human, too?

For the measure of man is not logic nor reason nor righteousness. Rather, the measure of man is grace and virtue and forgiveness.

The table is set. The trees are laden. The gardens are abloom.

Will you join me...?