This Thing That I Call Me

  All is One, You are God, and the answer is LOVE...

   Inside most people there is a feeling of being separate, Separated from everything, and they're not.You're part of absolutely every one, and everything. PLEASE,  believe me. You don't because you have this spot that you can't see past.
  You know not just how beautiful you all truly are...
  There's no need to hide, or to lie, and it's possible to talk to someone without any lies, no sarcasm, no deceptions, no exaggerations, or anything people use to confuse the truth... 

   it's become appalling clear, that your technology far surpasses your humanity...  Someday your humanity might actually surpass your technology... 

  I didn't just go someplace, not away, just out, but EVERYWHERE...


Dear Beloved Soul,
   Some prose exposing my innermost emotions. I give you my words on a wing -  

BOOK OF HOURS

MATINS

Faith, Hope, Love.

 Deliver me unto myself that I may finish fretting the hours in vain, looking for what's lacking always elsewhere and otherwise. Grant me that peace which whispers like the wind between the earth and sky, the hush like intervals of silence between questions, between the calls of crickets, the sorrows of the seasons forever flowing one into the next, swift and sure as grace. 
Bleach my bones and twine my hair. When I am gone feed my flesh to carrion bent toward their erasures of antiquity. But first grant me this: let one day the shadows lift, that enslaves my soul to sadness. 
Teach me the beauty of my emptiness. Fill the hollows of my ribs with wistful winds until they ring like drained crystal goblets rubbed into song.

LAUDS

 Gift me in my lovelorn gloaming, the paled ashes of remembered passion: bathe me in the glad warmth gathered like a song's unfolding thrill that I might rise like smoke lofting up. 
Cloak me in the darkness of uncontrollable desire. Sanctify my spirit in a hunger that devours pride and fills my veins with urgency. Twist those anguished flames around me until my every limb curses this ripe fruit. Oh fill the abandoned rooms where my losses gather to lament. No longer thin in my blood to drain color from my face for want. In the half-light of love grown lambent, I can almost see a way to save me from myself.

PRIME

 Hone my gaze to the riches of detail- fine as the fur on the belly of the bee or the vein's thin as breath lining of a forgotten iris, translucent as thought. Reward's anxious eyes and a hasty heart do not recognize. Toll all the bells and raise the blinds, open the shutters: let this feeling overflow and swell the room with light. Save me from the doubts that swarm like maggots feeding on a wound. Leave me not alone in despair, gnawed raw to the nakedness of my existence.

TERCE
 See me, as I am, in this world of aspirations and broken dreams. Let me be more, yet possess some beauty. Heal my impatient heart which burns within me like a cankar. Teach me not to be annoyed by my faults, which roll within my ears as loud as thunder. Help me to love the fragile and small, the damaged and forgotten without sorrow. Fill me with understanding as an oak tree fills with wind. Caress my compassion; let my consciousness shake down and cover those I love. Help me to laugh with so much feeling I shake the earth and tremble quiet pools with my joy. Multiply my delights till they surround me like an echo resounding in a chasm.

SEXT

 Speak my mind in the tales of tongues turning words into wonder and wile away my wasted effort sweeping aside the bitter beauty of my betrayal. Seed the soil with loneliness until no plant will rise and paint the bright land black that I may blend my hide against its ravaged contours and disappear. Let me not forget the afternoons full of leisure when I flush in blessings lolling in your swoon so abundant and light every breeze was the lifting of time's wing. 
Hide me in another season: Use my shame like a prism to refract the light into shards of color, blushing this deed and that, embellishing a thousand years, until the renaissance roars of my regret that only centuries can comfort.

NONE

 Grant me hope the measure of a myth and my spirit will rebound: this love will burnish the air as if etched in lightening and my hands will clap like thunder. For I have come so long without a sign. Into my path 
let fall moments in handfuls, ripe and random, a little grace the comfort of this gift. Bless the blooms and the upstart grasses, single stark born broken-ribbed unbearable. All hallow the stoops and leaky asylum cracked alleys filled with broken inhabitants and dreams. Thank all the nouns we cling to, until calm blankets us like snow.

VESPERS

 Fill the evening with whispers. Smooth the air with the waft of worship from behind my pale facade, for even anger falters when the whole gasp of sky is mauve and gold and all the windows proclaim aflame. Protect me from the undertow of failing light, the suck of self-sacrifice lifting the last starling from the field leaving nothing but crickets and the bleak embrace of black. Angels have I none nor hope enough to fill this length of day yet let my heart rush as one with the swell of oceans, arising and the bells dispersing evening like smoke in the thickening air.

COMPLINE

 Slake my longing this heavy thirsting heart with draughts of God until the familiar burn and bruise is cooled as if by marble met or deep in earth the damp of darkness leaching from my skin the lingering fever so I may sleep again. Still this fear more loyal than a lie, that I may wake without the crease of hard dreams pressed into my flesh or the trace of brine when I swallow empty glassfuls in every breath. 
A gentle stirring flutters, filling like vowels swelling in my mouth tentative kisses these unfinished prayers: Bless me, do not break my heart.

Synopsis -

 "I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of the imagination". 
Cultivation of the soul might be as simple as listening to one's heart and examining the different moments of one's life. 
Perhaps enlightenment, isn't customarily found in the blinding bolt of lightning but rather in a series of tiny illuminations, none of which at the time seems important or interesting but collectively combine to lift the heart and widen the aperture through which we allow ourselves to view the infinite.

  A.'. A.'.



This Thing That I Call Me

Adrianne (A.) Anarcharsis

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