Psyche’s Room

Doesn’t your mind sometimes feel like an unmoored bedroom with copious relics and keepsakes and fresh linens under the scrutiny of a sea’s storm? They become tangles, disorders, and knots swaying to and fro as though this is their utmost lullaby. Meanwhile my mind’s appetite beats loudly, muffling my heart and slowly it inhales tempest’s eye and I become what I feared and loathed. The sound of mercy flees every whichaway, fainting underneath the splintered wood that begins to gesture the water in. Wait! Please, before I eddy into beastly nothingness                                           .

My tender fingers and clammy palms, unbeknownst to me, work diligently and faithfully like a colony of ants holding fast my unruly vessel. There is a cooing of curvaceous understanding and patience that awakens me.

Sweet baby, awake, what ails my dear?
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child and lend thine ear,
To hear me sing thy lullaby.

When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes she took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in Her sight.

My mind’s age is not recognized as innocent and suckling, yet my distant past still needs tending to and a large chained shank dropped to the bottom of Her seas. Nevertheless, as my steady hands show me how to make quiet, even in the midst of the swaying disarray, I follow their shepherding.

If you are disappointed, hold that keepsake closely for it shows you, you not who you need to now inflate.

(Belaying, belaying)

If you are quiet, hold that relic sweetly for it shows you, you not who you need to now pack in with parades and seduction for the sake of temporary, flimsy external affection.

(Backstays, backstays)

You are loved, by Her.

Did you hear and sense it in weather’s warm embrace or formidable thunder or delicate baptisms?

You are loved, by Him.

Did you know and fathom it in the crooked peony or cracked roads or stuttering words?

If you are shortsighted, shortminded, shortfighted, hold those linens like they are blankets comforting you, you in the lowliness and exquisiteness of being human.

(Compassed, compassed)

You are loved, by Them.

Sweet baby, sweet woman, sweet flesh and blood you give way to the splintering boards, let the water surge underneath and take notice of your body as it grows gills,

or grows more hair,

or grows extra hands,

or more heart

on behalf of withstanding the emptiness,

the beastly nothingness.

To experience them not fixed on destroying you or invoking the eye’s storm in your hungry belly.

But rather, fixed on inviting you to the most exilic, grotesque, fascinating party where each being possesses wilds and crazies; beauties and borings of all kinds–not one having to succeed the other, but all being awkwardly together and persistent in seeing and making meaning of each other’s sinking, moorless bedrooms.


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Filed under memento vivere, mythology, seasons, splits, Uncategorized

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