her song

She was music.

Notes discordant engaged in their unending struggle against dulcet chords.
When you listened closely, the variations in theme, mood and flow were distinct at times, merged at others.

Sometimes the melody would swell out, filling you with possessive music, disabling you of other feeling until the pregnancy of sound had subsided. No regret for the finality because the satisfaction was complete.

But you could feel this change.
The gathering power of some disturbance was making itself known before it had arrived - no courtesy here, only inspiring vague apprehension.

The music played on, pleasant monotony now that those happier notes had spent themselves. Underlying notes were being gathered in now, tossed into the repetition and whirled, while the notes quickened, breathless.

The sky sometimes is violet coloured while the sun shines obscenely, waiting to be blackened by an impatient storm. This repetition was only that fascinated expectancy before the climax of tortured notes.

It came. Deliberately ordered but seemingly out of control in its ferocity, harsh, untamed chords that blacked the memory of any former beauty in the music.

And she could hear, through the thick beat of this music, the laughter of people who would not understand.
And she left, the music ebbing and dying as she walked through the rain.

God was playing her song.

this God who serves us

You know me.
Past the shadow of
what appears to be substantial,
everything that I think forms
who I am
But I am not,
and You know.

Your eyes,
lasers
burning through
the overlapping, too often
irrational desires
That pull me,
trying to tear away
the imprint of Your law
That small, essential part
of Your mind

Because
You bound me
I, reluctant
no longer a slave to this sin
and still
my heart yearning after
the old bondage

And last night
I found I understood You
more than before
Pleasurable knowledge
and
I loved You
when I remembered
this sudden shaft of iridescent light
could only have come from You

And I try to believe You
asking myself why
and
seeing the dark struggle
of my own soul
besieged by sin
if -
You let me stop believing in You

Too dark,
this picture
You force me to grasp Your light
this freedom,
with my weak mind
I can only see You as liberty
because
I must compare it to
hellish sin

But,
too often
I see You as slavery
[and You are]
my sin encrusted soul
making a trap
and feeling the pleasure of
covering darkness

Show me what You are
Your beauty and purity
blind me
purge
the lingering shadows
lurking darkness of
this evil mind
to die
because I had seen
the perfection of Your glory
would perhaps
be too beautiful a death

Collapse my mind
engrave awe
so that I do not sin
God, harness my soul
so that I can never leave You

Claim me, God
because I struggle to claim You.

Eyes

Sometimes
people most loved
hang themselves

The pressure is too great
realisation that what is loved
is sensual, ephemeral.

Mere fleeting expression
on a pretty face
a mask
and
no one sees deeper than
the smile implanted in soulless skin

and
they are all blind
how can they see
the emotion of a fragile heart?

Happy people cannot help themselves
their happiness show cased in the shop window of
their souls

but
the laughter of a part
of myself
is disposable
and
a deeper part would feel its absence
its elimination would effect
no substantial change
not yet

Truth
of deeper - centered thought
power not shared
a cynicism smiles can hide
no one seeing
through a mist of obscured emotions
harmful

And if they did?
mere conjecture on implausibility
but...
thoughts as common property?
And how can you hide
your mask destroyed by all-seeing eyes?

Those eyes that can see down
through each layer of thought
scanning the bottom of
your shallow abyss

eyes
no longer able
to be shocked
truth harmless
through leveling commonality.

- Lydie

procrastination

The drop falls - slipping down the black tiles, trembling at the edge of them, gathering added strength from the stream of water feeding into it - then the fall, evening sunlight glancing off the curve. It shudders as it pierces the air, pirroetting with the golden dust. Fallen, only to join the black spreading moisture on the wooden panelling. A brief brilliance in the scene.
The sun, hazy in the washed expanse, leaning over and dipping the world in black contrasts and stinging light - too powerful to have a gentle beauty, this warrior sun.

- Lydie

elimination

it wasn't true.

The thought ran, sometimes halting to wait for the preoccupied mind, but always returning there, illuminating the darker recesses and piercing the illusions that the mind, possessive, had clung to.
And the infrastructure of the mind had to be restructured, not reformed. Perhaps a part of the essential foundation eliminated, and some new idea pushed in by a desire unwilling but a mind fascinated.

And she, the mind, was realising that this was the growth of herself, as old and new ideas struggled and did battle.
That growing maturity is both death and life, metamorphosis that painfully casts off the shell of old thinking and feels the knife thrust and raw cold of reality.

Less true now, the thoughts of last year, but in ways hard to comprehend now, true for the time.
The vision now was clearer, the mist evaporating because of experience that had revealed greater depth, height and distance.

- Lydie

ideas

her eyes were black holes, sweeping over the lines and curves and pulling them effortlessly into her mind, where her brain clasped them, greedily teasing out the concepts.

her ears heard nothing, though the moss-coloured computer chair creaked with leaning weight, the computer hummed and the mouse clicked, plasticy under her grasping hand.

the thoughts new-dyed her mind, spreading, overtaking, no layers of thought now, only one new multi-faceted concept at a time that her brain struggled with, fascinated, then understood, partially.

Looking back to experience, but she couldn't understand these ideas. Couldn't, because she'd never been under the weight, strong pressure that falls heavily on the mind and can't be removed - the weight that forces them to write, not for freedom because freedom doesn't come that way, but to be able to articulate the heaviness, and therefore relieve it a little.

Her brain expanded with new thoughts, clouded in mystery, ideas she half-understood. Not yet.

- Lydie

p.s. this one's for you, microchiroptera. I read some of your older posts then wrote this.

Conform

Perhaps it started when she was dressing for church; trying to decide what to wear, what would look best on, what the people there would think she looked most attractive in. In the end she took off the skirt and zipped up jeans; it was too hard to look the part from what she had.
Then they drove there, so familiar the road to church now, the same trees, same houses, same car, same intent, same purpose.
Everything was the same, every week. The consistency and regularity of just going to church pressed on her mind; she felt vague feelings of frustration.

Driving into the church carpark increased her feelings of the rigidity of custom. It was like the car was driving into a slot in a machine; perfectly on time, driving into the same carpark, on the same side of the building. There could be no break in the seamless pattern.
She couldn't put into conscious thought what she felt, but her mind was unresisting to the pressure of her feeling, so she decided to take a walk - back behind the church before attending the prayer meeting.

And first she walked into the church, wondering that her body would take her, obey one part of her informed mind, while the other part of her mind resisted - and left the food they'd brought for the church lunch on the table.
She made a little, polite conversation with the people who, one part of her mind knew, deserved more than the other part of her mind wanted to give - then she walked out of the building.

The air was soft, no pinioning edges or sharp spear thrusts of resilient cold, but the wind was up and the rushing air chilled her. She wrapped her arms around her chest, fighting. The trees ahead of her, behind the silent school buildings, had branches that were clear black sillhoettes against the pale blue and white sky. They'd been cutting the trees down; unproductive and space-consuming. She'd mourned them Sundays ago, the soil plundered of roots; the skyline full of holes.
She started to think; only a little, because it was early still, and thinking is usually reserved for a mind that has passed through the action of daytime and has leisure to consider.

She understood only a little of why she felt this way about church. She loved church, with the greater part of her mind. She would have felt that she'd done badly to have missed going.
But conformity struck her as being not just unfashionable, but imprisoning.

- Lydie

p.s. the views expressed here do not necessarily reflect my own, [or] they reflect only a part of my views.