The face is coal The only light is the gray moon striking light down from the highest point in the sky There’s an artic chill blowing through whispy hair like a harsh dry cough Trembling hand strokes trembling hand while the numbness tries to eat away flesh much like a disease to bare coarse skin weathered by life’s storm It’s not so lonely with the wolves howling Pockets, a zipper, buttons, a collar melted into the body; it repeats Upon a single star lands a wish or two: just let me make it through Then the dogs of night call again chasing familiar shivers down the spine A river rubbed over raw with ice is broken by an unbalanced toe It begins with a dip, a soaking foot, a wet pant leg, and then down more The smell is nothing but bubbles floating from the nose dancing to freedom on the surface Leaving behind a trapped body overcome with anxiety like the shot of a gun A nobody dares to bellow out never fear nor dive into the abyss A calm rushes through the insides; there is no sinking, no water, no ice, no beasts, no bitter, no cold, no moon, no somber face, and she sees the green
Emerson stated, “To be great is to be misunderstood.” People who have gone beyond the normal barriers of thought and into a new view of life cause controversy. Fundamental scholars such as Greek philosophers and teachers of the past have proven that evoking deep reflection, or seeing truth in another perspective scares others. They are afraid of being different and not conforming. These people who are trained to follow the pack lose touch with their individuality and self-expression. Of course those who challenge themselves and society delve further than physical senses to reach a higher reality. In return many criticize out of confusion and fear. To be misunderstood like that may bring out inner strength. To be confident in your intuition is to excel forward; along the way there will be guns to shoot you down, but the solution is to transcend. The higher power, whatever it may be for a person, can be reached if the will is there. In the world today many people are searching for answers; they can’t find out who they are or want to be. As a result greatness is never found. They never push themselves because they’re dependent on other people’s reactions, discriminations and negativity to fuel which direction they need to go. To conform is to lie down and surrender. Emerson’s statement about greatness and being misunderstood relates to everyone because we all have a choice. The choice is to be true to yourself, let your heart and soul guide you, or migrate with the flock and miss out on achieving greatness—ultimately giving up on self-reliance.
On my bed I am a cross. My eyes come apart letting in dim light from the drawn shades. My body is facing upward towards the sky. I don’t move at all only stare at the red door which is straight above me—connected to the ceiling somehow by enchantment. I see myself looking at it. Then I am back inside myself gazing at the perpetual opening and closing of bright red ambiance. The extravagance pulls me in; I feel this current pulling my brain through my skull—a need, a want, a desire to slip through the passageway into a fate not yet foretold. Wonder plagues my imagination like maggots feast on dead carcass. This wonder wraps itself around my reason. However logical my mind may have been is crushed by a sea of unexplained yearning to fly up and beyond the door. For it to bring solace or even incomprehensible twanging deeply enclosed in my cortex is not plausible but not impossible. A glow radiates out of my reach resting at the entrance as it opens again and again. Since the first time I had awoken I had not altered my gaze to blackness. A vision of blood pouring from mouths and down lips flood my left eye as my right eye seeks steady aim on the door which puzzles me so. Shifting to the right eye is a shiver—I feel this eyelid curl back fluttering with convulsions of flashing tongues bending as they lick the tainted door’s scarlet secretions. Pools of fluid gather on the floor to commune, while bleak faces of grotesque women emerge into reapers of my misfortune beside my cradle of slumber. My fingertips fall to the impassive boards covered in hideous masks. Each lip splashes at the tingling tops of my hands wetting the imprints of my identity.