Letting Go
I sit re-reading texts I had written when in the throws of some madness months ago, although so foreign to me now are the jumbled assemblage of words, they could have been written by another hand in some other life. It occurred to me, as I pondered them, that the intensity and truth with which they were written was rendered meaningless aside from the context within which they were torn. Perhaps this is the trick of life. To dwell within the fire, with all it's ravages and insanity, flickering but for a moment in the flame. Yet, to accept also, that in moments past, those same tongues that seemed of such importance, so all consuming as they licked upon the soul in the existential truth of their passing, are but glimpses of a fleeting eternity of being. A being that in the moment of its greatest import demands it's release, so that we, who dwell within the flame may once again rise in the dawn of our own becoming. Knowing that each moment is a lifetime unto itself, a priapic birth and death, no distant than the breath that spans it's divide. The madness of love is a fire to warm the soul, yet the memories can crush it also, quenching the flame if we do not release it, allowing it to dwell for it's moment free from the expectation of our own desirous need. I read these poems and texts, unpublished and unseen, and wonder from where they have come, like snapshots of a flame in a language rendered meaningless without the warmth of it's time.
© Richard Michael Parker 2013
