A Whisper Before You Return to Dreams

Nights are spent at the same bar,
crafted by my father and I,
staring at a fishing net,
on a blank canvas.
Decorative yet empty of meaning.
As good a place as another,
to work on submitting bothersome emotions,
to a troubled mind.
I am not fit to love.
My heart awakens brief moments,
only for quick shocks to keep it alive,
then resides back into its peaceful coma.
Alive but inactive.
Preserved by a doctor who demands reason alone.
When he finds the patient has awakened,
he bows down to whisper into the patient's ear,
"Remember what you did? Remember what you are?
You are better off dead to the world."
The patient nods with a silent tear,
and bears his chest for the shock,
ready to return to his dreams.

Training has been complete,
and I have overcome lust.
My body no longer aches for touch,
nor do vulgar images fill my mind.
I either see Beauty or some empty thing.
And more often than not I'm learning to see the beauty.
I have been cleansed.
And yet I fear it is a facade,
and I am an old, dumb dog,
who thinks he can learn new tricks.
As if a mask I wear,
that will slip off at the first sign of sleep,
that I shall awake to a monster in the mirror,
once again.
I flee from slumber.

I watched a girl find God today.
Her voice still rings in my head,
"logic and Christianity are contradictory."
Religion major, stuck in between worlds--
raised by a Confucian, educated in Taoism and the westerns,
lost and lonely, confused and frustrated.
For once I realize I'm capable of empathy,
and not just sympathy.
It began in reality, on "reality,"
whatever that meant at the time.
And my mind's homunculus began to watch,
steering my thoughts, my smiles, my answers.
Her expressions going up and down like the tides,
the ebb and flow of realizations and further questioning.
By the last piece of her iced cake,
she asked questions of "God" with great curiosity--
as if she knew Him.
I was called wise for the first time today.
If only she knew I am but a jack-in-the-box,
full of surprises,
but still needing someone to wind me up,
so that I can even function.
And all the knowledge I have,
is bound up in a box,
sitting quietly on a curb, alone and forgotten,
on a desolate street.
Until some wanderer happens to rotate its lever,
and it pops out with a surprise,
glimpses Beauty,
only to slink back into its small, familiar world.

Two acts occurred last night,
that I prayed for.
the first within a ten second span,
the second within five minutes.
I'll never know,
but probability of coincidences,
drops to improbable levels at times.
And I find myself talking to God,
in a way never known to me before.
I wanted to pray for the impossible,
but stopped myself.
A prayerful mind bending the supple knee,
before thee Lord, in a chapel of statues.
The connection to the intangible suddenly-
seems more apparent,
than connecting to the tangibles.
Automatons marching around,
works and words constructed from gears and steam.
The motions capture the best of us.

I hear bells now,
like sirens calling me to the depths of slumber,
they would have me dragged to the darkness,
to feed on my sorrow,
taking glee in my panic,
and my outreached arm towards the surface,
as it slips into the unseen.
Bells, bells, bells...

If only life were like honey.
Immortal and sweet.
Good for health and pleasurable.
Fulfilling all needs and wants,
to some good end.
But I suppose someone must capture the bees,
harvest their work,
and then I find myself praying for the impossible,
give me something that must be given freely.
Call the doctor, the patient is awake and raving mad--
needing his sedative.
But things seem more like smoke,
beautiful clouds drifting in dance,
but when I reach out to make it mine,
it is lost, and I destroy what beauty was there.

I don't know what I'm saying.
Seems to happen a lot lately.
I think I shall go somewhere tomorrow,
far away from here,
and read.
Go back to my medicinal textbooks,
now that the patient is quiet,
and I can forget the end of my art,
and focus on the means.
For the patient would fancy to make the doctor-
as mad as he is.

It's been a longtime since I couldn't sleep.
I've taken to exercising,
work takes up most of my time.
And yet something remains to be drained,
crying out for fulfillment,
and it won't let me sleep.
In the dreamworld, I fear who should rule.
The roles of doctor and patient become blurred,
and I wake up with the sun:
visibly shaken, disturbed, broken.
"I'm just tired. Long weekend," I'll lie.
"It's the patient keeping me up," I'll mutter to myself.

The bells ring again. It's another 5am night.
And once again I'm over the patients bed,
like some nights before,
forcing him down.
He kicks and shrieks as I try to speak reason to him:

"What you want you are incapable of having.
You would see it destroyed you monster.
If you won't fight so much I will live for you,
and tell you of its beauty before bedtime.
So at least you can dream of such worthy things.
But you must not be allowed to rise,
for you are unworthy to have such things.
Heart, you must be quiet now.
You had your chance to rule,
and I grew tired of your corruption.
Now lay there, and I shall tell of what you desire,
so that you might take comfort in the times--
when you are awake,
and not dread returning to your dreams.
Perhaps one day you will overcome your sickness,
and I pray for you when you sleep.
Hush now, and fall into the rhythm of the bells,
and I shall tell you of a beauty that will give you rest.
It shall have to be enough,
until I or another can fix you.