Without Home Any Longer

I am fatigued by the noise, of humanity's din, a rising, ringing pitch that deafens the ears without warning. For I am young but I am tired, a barely conscious child in a storm's eye with its spinning vortex walls, ever so often, pulling me back into the maelstrom. In its center lay the peace, wisdom, the quiet aftermath like the silence of a wartorn field. And here, I reflect, I learn, but I do not experience directly; I do not touch the hands which pull me backawards; I cannot learn the intricacies of the disease before it spreads in my lungs. Here, gravity exists no more, and I lay prone—suspended—with splayed arms, eyes dimmed, heart beating a tranquility I do not deserve.

I cry for the burdens of those I see struggling beneath their weight, the inherent prices placed upon eternal liberties that we've falsely claimed as byproducts of modernity; the consequences of inevitable circumstances, as they attempt to manifest their potential, in a society suffocating the creative thought processes that could lend us greater courage to face these illusions.

Yet I exalt all suffering with an almost pious reverence, as a cultist worshiper hails a god, for I am young but I am tired, and I know that the weight of my bones is only the substance of what I've survived, not what I have avoided. I weep for what mental anguish it brings to those close to me, but do not grit my teeth when I face it myself.

"Hello, old friend," I greet him with a sad grin, for he is little else but a shade with endless masks, transitory as we are mortal; his tricks taunting me to a similar state of perplexing oddity and paradoxical behavior, of joining in his spinning darkness with disregard for sense or reason beyond what it might teach me. All the while, I begrudge not the suffering, only my inability to be aware of all that it brings. For I am young but I am tired, and I cannot possibly foresee every shade of meaning, though I may search, desperately, feebly.

I have forgotten how to see the polar shades of black and white.

There are fragments always grounded, pieces of me stitched to the empathy of the earth; often unwilling, are they, to see the greater picture. And so they should be. Without them, I would be little else than a misplaced demigod roaming aimlessly and without concern for others. I've begun to see that the transcendental is in the human; that the sky is the fodder for our dreams; what bleeds is what is earthy; but what writes about it, is the voice beneath the recognition. A detatched, conscious dissonance to instinct.

So here I begin once more, back to the same questions asked to a deaf fate, finding peace, at least, in the consistent mystery they bring, and what little I might do which makes all the difference, to learn to laugh amidst it all.

For I am young but I am tired, and I am without home any longer.