Tag Archive | random

The Key


My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

‘Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.

‘What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
‘I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

Image

I continue to exist. . . breathing, barely so, but existing. They tell me I should be grateful for that—for existing. They tell me many things, but the only one who I truly hear whispers from inside my mind, quietly reminding me that I should go. I argue, of course, I say that I must withstand my punishment, but the whispering says that no one wants me here anymore—not really…did they ever want me here? It’s sad really, so sad that they believe punishment comes after death when in reality, we live our punishment amidst the fires of our hell every day. Empty streaks of blue try to hide the gray shades of my hell. The blue masks the gray skies; it is not really that beautiful shade of blue. Blue—what is blue but a shade of black that we think we see. I saw only the blue before; it was a long, long time ago. I don’t see blue anymore. Eliot’s Waste Land is real. I should know; I possess the key.

©2014 Relinda R.

A Purpose


Image“Discovering your purpose in life is like feeling a soft summer breeze caress your body while drenched in sweat.  Realizing that your purpose challenges everything you ever sought and knew in life is like feeling a harsh winter wind plummet your naked body after emerging from the ocean waters in December.”

~Relinda

2009 and back—Sundays were awesome. Sunday bekfast to start the day, usually pancakes and bacon, then work time! There was usually time spent in the shop with the stereo blaring, and always time spent working in the yard. I loved Sundays! For about 20 years, I never spent a Sunday alone. The best Sundays were whenever we had ongoing projects-like building a cabin, shop, or installing a new ceiling. We had fun, regardless of what we were doing.

2010 to last Sunday—Sundays suck. There is no Sunday bekfast. Pepper da’ schnauzer and I just eat whatever we can find. We have not had pancakes or bacon since October 2009. And never will again. The work continues, but there is no joy in it because I do it alone. Sundays offered three choices-work on job things; work on school work; or clean. In a striving effort to keep everyone happy-I always chose whatever seemed to please others the most.

This Sunday-today—the first Sunday in which I’ve stirred without any lingering hope whatsoever. I am empty. I accepted the solitude. I’ve accepted that he is not returning and I will be alone for the rest of my miserable days. I will never wake up to pancakes and bacon, be excited about projects, or wake up in his arms again. Surprisingly, the absence of any hope whatsoever is easier. Knowing that the rest of my Sundays now offer four choices is somewhat of a relief. I can work on job things; work on school work; clean; or pretend it is nightfall, go back to bed and wonder how much longer until my punishment is over. I accept it. In fact, I embrace the solitude. Finally, I can sleep without any annoying interruptions of unrealistic dreams to my work or sleep. I am empty. I do not expect anything.

It took over four years for me to accept Solitude and Loneliness. After four long years of clinging to expectations and hope, I finally killed them all. After realizing that expectations are empty, there is nothing to anticipate, and hope is false, I am falling in love with Solitude. It is comforting to let go of any lingering hope and desperation. I expect nothing from life. After all, I had everything once. All my expectations and fragmented hopes are dead. My dear friend calls it progress and advises me that it is great to accept solitude as my purpose in life. I am learning what I was supposed to learn—that I belong alone. It is progress because once all hope of anything good is gone, one cannot even feel the pain anymore. Soon, I will look forward to the weekends. I can go to my house, lock the door, and kiss Solitude. I can remove my mask and sleep a long, dreamless sleep. And until Monday morning, I can know the emptiness of sleeping within Solitude’s embrace. I do not look forward to anything. . . except the end. I may be free.

©2014 Relinda R.

Solitude


“I am lost without you. I am soulless, a drifter without a home, a solitary bird in a flight to nowhere. I am all these things, and I am nothing at all. This, my darling, is my life without you. I long for you to show me how to live again.”
Nicholas Sparks

 Image

A very wise friend helped me to see that my purpose is to accept Solitude. I accept my fate. I fought so hard to deny it and I begged Clotho to weave it differently, but in the end—the sisters of fate prevail. I see my reflection in the mirror, but I am not there anymore. I am lost. I am alone. I am gone. Once, I slept within the warm embrace of love. Now, I slumber within the cold grasp of solitude. I surrender. I welcome it. I accept it.

Others always know best. You will heal. You will live again. You will get over it. You must move forward. Others know best? Do they? You have no right to hurt when others have hurt more. You should smile. You should laugh. You should be happy within Solitude’s grasp. Shouldn’t you? Smile while you suffer and die slowly and silently. Others always believe they know best.

“Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.” ~Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Eventually all the Others walk away, all but Solitude; he is always the victor in an unseen battle. Eventually, the facade fades and the curtains close, but Solitude waits in the wings to claim his rewards. Even the strongest shields sometimes crumble and fall away. But Solitude waits to make love to you. And gradually, you learn to love Solitude completely.

©2014 Relinda R.

Excerpt from “Shades of Grief”


Image

Careful, girl, silence threatens to erect steel walls where none existed before. Shadows hide in dark corners just awaiting their chance to escape into illumination. Their birth warns all those living to beware. Loneliness leads a soul into an abyss of annihilation, where shards of broken dreams bar all exits. It is hell where empty souls march without ever touching. It begins with silence. It ends with solitude.

©2013  Relinda R. from “Shades of Grief”

“Out, out, brief candle”


Everything ends. Regardless of whether it is unbound bliss, or inconsolable anguish, it must end. Knowing when something should end is the key to true wisdom. Sometimes, there is no other alternative than to close your eyes, gently extinguish the flame and whisper, “Out, out, brief candle.”Image                                       It has to end soon. I no longer recognize this stranger living within me. Traces of Hope lingered even after I thought him dead, but now I know he is truly gone. All that is left is an empty shell that some stranger inhabits. It has to end soon. I do not recognize the reflection that stares back at me with hollow eyes. The remainder of what is me is wise.

©Relinda R. 2013

My Mystical Quandary


Last night, while going through the grueling process of self-pity, I spent some time pondering life’s precarious predicaments. After all, I am perpetually lost within the darkness of one of those precarious predicaments. My husband is gone. Regardless of how much I scream, beg, and cry, he will still be gone. I know that his soul continues to exist, but I will not see him again while on this earth. He visited me a few times, but he does not visit anymore. This is what I thought, in between sobs and the question of why, why, why.

I am slowly fathoming the reason why he refuses to see me. My spirituality demands that I believe everything happens for a reason. Logically, I know this; however, emotions usually trump logic. His death was not just a random occurrence. He died because my karma demands some retribution. I do not remember why I chose this lonely existence, but I assume that my soul owes a massive debt to my eternal growth. He refuses to see me for two reasons. One—it is the hell I must endure to advance spiritually and two—he has his own soul growth with which to tend.

One may think that accepting answers would lead to peace. I wish that were the case. I remain in a perpetual state of uproar. Tranquility looms just out of reach. I have two choices—I can simply accept my castigation and resign myself to living as a fraud or I can reinvent myself and be content with the knowledge that I am mortal and mortality has its limits. What a mystical quandary I face.

  I reluctantly abandon my dreams—my dream of growing old with the man I love with all my heart, my dream of becoming a writer, my dream of happiness, and my dream of helping others. I buried the largest part of my dreams the day I buried him, but vestiges drift in the aura surrounding me. Those vestiges are slowly drifting away. I surrender to the dreamless existence, which offers only emptiness. I had such a big heart. Sometimes, I wondered whether I am an empath. I feel as though my heart is shrinking. I still feel, I still absorb the sadness of others around me, but I no longer feel that I am capable of helping them.

Doyle and I had plans for retirement. Once I began teaching, he could retire. I was planning to buy a metal detector for him so that he would have a hobby. He had big plans for working in the shop we built. I had big plans of coming home to his arms after long days. We never had that opportunity. His life ended much too soon. My life ended about two weeks prior to his. I try to pretend that we are holding each other, sometimes even falling asleep that way, but I always wake with tears on my pillow.

My dream of becoming a writer, while still looming around me, has died for the most part. So few people actually read what I write. A friend said it is because my writing is so depressing, but I do not believe that. My writing is just not as good as I thought. He was my biggest fan and his encouragement drove me. I read everything I wrote to him, regardless of how long. He would praise me and sometimes, even make suggestions. I am not a narcissist, but I admit that his devotion encouraged me to continue writing. Now, I suppose I write because I began writing as a little girl and believed it was my destiny. I do not believe that anymore. I am beginning to believe that my destiny was to have 20 years of bliss with the man I love, and then be plunged into darkness for atrocities I committed in previous lives. To endure this hell for the remainder of this life is my destiny.

I once thrived in helping others. I could often find the right thing to say or know just when to listen. Now, how can I help others when I cannot even help myself. All I am capable of now is absorbing their pain, but with no resolutions to absolving it. I have become useless. There it is—I have no purpose anymore. I merely exist.

Relief can only come in the form of death, but I signed a contract. How funny that I am bound by contractual obligations to endure my sentence. I imagine a heavy scroll stuck in an array of endless shelves, just gathering dust. Ironically, the written word that I love so much is the very harness that confines me to hell. To take my own life would be equivalent to breaking a contract with God. I cannot do that because then, I would be condemned to endure another life or I might not get to see him. I cannot take that chance.

The time is nearing that I make my choice—accept my fate and learn to embrace this fraudulent existence or simply evolve into another person and wait for it all to end. My mystical quandary is complex. For now, I can only accept my fate and continue living as a fraud, feigning laughter at the right moments and pretending as though I enjoy living alone knowing that I will never again know love or even making love. However, at the back of my mind is the thought that the two options can merge—along with empty existence, I must find contentedness with the knowledge that mortality has its limits. I wait.

©2012 Relinda R.

“I love you and that’s all I know”


All my plans have fallen through,
All my plans depend on you, depend on you to help them grow,
I love you and that’s all I know.

When the singer’s gone let the song go on…

But the ending always comes at last,
Endings always come too fast,
They come too fast but they pass too slow,
I love you and that’s all I know . (
Art Garfunkel “All I Know” written by Jimmy Webb)

I tried to watch a comedy today. Flop. I cried. I find that I am extraordinarily talented at securing my emotions behind this mask I don each day, but I am still rather shocked at the depth of pain it secures when I remove it in solitude. The last three years have led me to believe that the talents I once possessed had died, and now I discover that I have acquired a new talent—acting.  The grief bottled in my soul escapes when I am alone and threatens to destroy me. It is all right though because I am alone. As long as no one sees it, it is all right. Actually, I have been unable to stop crying for the last four days. My karmic debt must be massive. I keep asking when will I be released, but He does not answer. When I cry myself to sleep and wake up an hour later, I know I still owe on the bill. I have also been asking what I did, in either this life or a past life, to accumulate this much karmic debt. No one answers. An answer could hint to how much time I owe and at least provide something in which to look forward. I visited his grave today. I cried.

My mask becomes iron-like as I stoically face each day. The only problem is my eyes. One cannot hide his or her eyes. Mine are red and swollen, but fortunately, few notice. At least when I use the excuse of my tiredness, it works because I actually am exhausted. I do not dare say that I am tired of living like this. I only say that I am tired. It works and it is not a complete lie.

I know that realistically, the tears will end. No one can continue to function when a song makes him or her cry or seeing a flower’s bloom makes him or her fall to the ground and lament the cycle of life. In the meantime, all I must do is make sure no one sees the tears and repeatedly assure everyone that their plight is much worse than my own, even whilst my heart knows that they have someone waiting at home. I think that one of the most difficult parts of pretending is knowing that people honestly believe they understand while I know that they have the arms of their loved one waiting to hold them at night. The most difficult part is knowing that when I say, I’m good, I am a fraud.

I think that as I near the three-year mark, I am nearing the point of collapse. I am just praying that my mask is strong enough to hide my inevitable collapse, at least until I am alone. I expect nothing from life anymore, but to hear from the other side would help me to cope. If only I could hear him whisper, “It is going to be all right,” perhaps I could gain the strength to finish paying the karmic debt I owe. Until then, I just continue to march along, enduring my punishment, and asking God, how much longer, Lord, how much longer.

©11.2012 Relinda R.