Alive

Dedicated to those who have shown me a mask only so I may inquire as to what is underneath it – thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I’ll tell you, here, now,
on this day, in this place,
that I am Alive.

And I don’t mean alive
like that thick blood of me
pumping through my heart,
slugging through my veins,
boring and rhythmic
like the subtle beats of a drum –
they’ve been going
for so long I
hardly notice
them anymore.

And not alive like the way your
car responds when you say
go – I command you –
go, lesser creation
go, tool of my progress
go, my body
go, me.

Not like that – come on

Not like the depressed
and the trapped
and the deject
giving their numbness
the ultimatum of
Feel this or die
when they slice open their skin
with a new razor’s edge.
You poor, pathetic
little statue of unrealized hope –
you were never Alive to begin with.

I know
because I’ve been there –

the point when you
wake up in the morning
and you’re jealous of yourself
when you were asleep –
you find bliss in reflections
of self that are so distorted
that you relish the perceived individuality,
thinking that this must have been
what mommy was talking about
when she said you
were special, so very special
–Well look at me now, Mom–
you say to literally
no one.
–You were right. I am special–
sarcastically confirming
her words just so you can bask
in your own perceived irony.

I’ve been there –
the point
when the sun is “harsh,” never “warm”
when nights just die, days aren’t born
when clouds don’t part, they’re just torn
to reveal that harsh sun again,
over and over,
and you wish you knew why
others were smiling.

But that’s not Alive.

If this was anything
but a true and honest attempt
of educere then I wouldn’t
be tearing at the
very limits of the
essence of my
conceived reality to
scream the whispers
of what I’ve dreamed
as truth:

How it’s beautiful
when your cousin –
one of the few you would’ve died for –
his brother taken when he was young –
won’t even look you in the eyes
when he shakes your hand,
stating that this will be
the last time you will ever see him,
now that he’s gotten his orders.

How it’s beautiful
when your family –
the one vestige of peace –
the closest you’ve seen to perfection –
breaks down and spills tears
in the form of forgotten reunions
and face-time like press conferences,
leaving their children the burden
of their self-conceived
intra-personal disparities,
without a shit to
give about the
ever-tipping scales
further and further
until everyone just jumps
onto the side that’s winning.

How it’s beautiful
when a call from your past –
the poster child of identity lapses –
the last thing you could ever expect –
wakes you up to tell you
of her father’s death
earlier that same day and
how she’s doing okay and
how she thought you
would just want to know –
and all you can manage
to say at three in the morning
is that you’re so sorry –
again abandoning the self
in order to be prudent.

Beauty –
in and of itself –
is this visceral honesty
under the guise of
being independent and secure
like a bar of gold
vacuum-sealed
in plastic wrap and smeared
with candy-coated horseshit.

This experience of convoluted truth –
Hey, it’s better than nothing.
The mythic dichotomy of the
opaque and the transparent, the same
way that we wonder whether
it’s better to be God’s worst enemy
or nothing, the same
way that Dorian Gray was scared
out of his mind, his self
to even look in a mirror
just because that painting was out there
somewhere, the same
way that Jesus fucking Christ
cried right before His death,
His essence bleeding out
onto the rocks and sand,
because of how deeply
the sunset moved Him
while His people got drunk
off of every drop that fell from his
hands, chin, and feet –

Beauty. Knowing that it’s out there,
seeing it, feeling it,
experiencing it –
It’s what keeping me going.
It’s how I know that

I am Alive.

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~ by cptgibbs on May 25, 2011.

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