I’m alone once again.
And once again I lose count of the days, the hours and the minutes,
They don’t matter anymore.
Time is interminable.
My futile efforts to fill the void, send me foraying into a plethora of memories,
Rummaging through school days, college years,
Adolescent joys and tears.
They flash across the mental screen, I will them to stay
Just a while, so I am not alone.
Vainly I try to hold a wave upon the sand, sadly I relinquish the moonbeam in my hand.
And it begins to rain.
The rhythm of the falling rain beats a haunting tattoo
That recalls vivid memories of other rainy days,
Evoking the sweetness followed by pain,
That slowly gives way to a numbness.
I don’t want to feel,
Happiness, sorrow, misery or pain.
I don’t want to remember
Good days or bad days, grey days or wet days.
I block out the past and stare out of the window.
Something stirs within.
I fight against myself…a losing battle this,
For the dark skies and falling rain call out to me and I cannot resist.
I must yield. I can’t be immune to it.
The memories flood back like the overflowing drains,
Gurgling, rushing, uninterrupted
Washing away the dirt, dust and debris.
Leaving in its wake quiet, calm, peacefulness.
And I lay my head down exhausted.
Too tired from the roller-coaster ride of emotions,
The upswings and downswings.
Somewhere clouds clash streaking the skies, breaking the silence with its thunder.
The flood-gates open to the release…
And I drown in a deluge of tears.
Years of conditioning in convention and orthodoxy,
Make me look for purpose and divine reason to every twist and turn in life.
The purpose is found, the reason justified
By theological philosophies, I pretend to understand.
I try to be stoical in the face of it,
Wondering what else is expected of me.
The outer walls I build around me
Of hard, cold reasoning and hollow sounding platitudes, harden and thicken while
Hidden inside the crumbling begins.
Broken and battered I cower inside the fortress,
Suspicious and scared of every shadow,
Of which there are many –
Some real, rest imagined.
And life goes on drawing hope from whispered Psalms.
Hope like a frail tendril clings to straws.
And I lift up my eyes and thank God,
For things could have been worse, but for His grace.
(First draft: 1996. Published: 2008)