Insomnia

I awake with a start 

thoughts rattling through my head, questions that seem so simple until dissected.

Decisions . .

What's the difference between life and living?
Are the similarities the same with 'to give' and 'giving'?
Do they agree that seeing is believing or perception is the lie we're all telling?

Respond . .

Life is oneself through days, through months, through years and beyond,
The timeline of experiences of memories continuing on.
A collective, a group, a story, a novel,
Based on oneself, of their journey through hell and heaven.
So what then is living?

It seems to me in all clarity that living is life, not the brief but the mission.
Living is the decisions we are faced with in life,
The moments, balanced on the blade of a knife,
Not the time it takes or the memories collected,
but the instantaneous exploitation of everything perceived that's accepted or rejected.
Living is us . .
 . .and life is the journey.

Life is a tale continuously told as we grow old through time and learning.
Or is it just to 'be alive'? To open eyes? To have a pulse, to be of conscious mind?

One thing is certain as I draw my curtain and look to the dark night below
Whether life is living or decisions are made by seeing not believing,
Whether all of these questions are needed or just confusing,
I know one thing for certain . .
I know right now, 

I would much rather be sleeping.

Transference

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The old man woke
reached around for the light switch and found his cold mug of tea,
without thought or sound he raised the mug to his mouth, took a swig and let the fluid pour down.....

The old lady opened her eyes,
brushed away her tears and said her goodbyes. 
Dismal and pale, a black veil drawn, she kissed the old man on the forehead and walked down the hospital hall.

The small child first saw the world,
kicking and screaming after a miracle birth.
Creased and wide mouthed he was cradled and towelled, and passed to the mother to take care of him now . . .

One hour after, the mother found her son,
silent to the room and to the sound of his lungs.

At ten minutes to 2 the doctors came through, clutching their gloves and a tracheostemy tube.
With strong hands and stern minds, they fought for th child and with their skill and might tried to save the childs life.

Black veil drawn, the old lady met her son, who told her the news of his newly born.
With glazed eyes and steely denial the old lady rushed to room number 5.
There where she had been only hours before, was her grandson on a bed surrounded by all.
Next to the door lost in thought and peering in looking distraught was her step daughter.

The old lady, with her hands, her heart and soul looked to the sky for strength in her woe . . . . . .

The old man woke a little after 3, rubbed his eyes looked down from the skies and saw his old lady.
To her he whispered and reached down upon and stood in blind sight next to his grandson. Through doctors hands he reached his own and placed them on the small torso.

With all his hope and all his might he left himself. . . .

As time passed and doctors left, the mother mourned and the old lady rested her head on the shoulder of her kin.  

Through her lips she whispered and silent eyes glistened, broken and twisted by what she had witnessed.
Still she hoped and she rocked as she wept, still the child lay on the table to rest.

The hours pass as the tears and hopes fall, squashed by instances out of anyone's control.

But the old man child in his hands had left himself. . . . .

Life passed

And now the whole family wept, but not through sadness. . .

For on the cold metal table, a small torso moved, 

inhale, exhale a slight rise of the chest

and from his blue lips came the smallest of breaths.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I met the devil

I put down my cup and raise my head up to a level position, the questions I’m asked aren't hard but I feel far away when I answer them.

Its been days since I've slept, and years since I let myself believe but now I do.

Now I know the truth and with what use I could be to the world

My fingers uncurl from a clenched fist under the table and I’m able to focus again

mind is at ease gun hand releases the cup of tea and I look up from the table to see him staring back at me

"The answer you ask for is not one for me to give. Do you believe in causative reality? Do you believe that everything happens for a reason or that we are the masters of our own existence? Do you believe in persistence?"

I offer

The man across the table relinquishes his glare relaxes into his chair and taps twice on the table with his Parker pen.

The air is stern now, fervent heat through electricity magnetizes the room as the truth pulses between us

His eyes grow darker and with it his demeanor. I stay, sharp, alert.  The sleep that clung to me at the start of questioning resides allowing me to slide back into control.

 "Do you believe we have a soul? Do you believe we know all there is? Do you believe we have given all we have to give? Have we lived?"

He turns his head away from mine in disgust, the lust for carnage and disproportionate anarchy rattles through his eyes and out of his fists. Still I sit.

His control turns cold, rage heated to the point of exploding he tries to resolve but I have him. He is mine. Never in turn never out of line I ask him one more time. 

"Do you really think we are alive?"

Limits

  . . . . . . . .

Is it sight that makes you blind or blindness that makes you see?

Is it speech that makes you dumb or dumbness that makes you speak?

Is it deafness that makes you hear everything you never heard before or noise that deafens your senses to everything around and more?

Do your hands tremble because of anger or do your angered fists clench shaking?

Do tears flow because of instances or situations of your own making?

Do hallowed words break loose from the mouth of unsettled tyrants or is it the whispered words of others that make tyrants so rampant?

Do angels sing their serene melodies to calm the despairing souls, or do lamenting matriarchs show their vocals encouraging angels to be bold?

Does a smile show the fine line between joy and melancholy or is it merely a placard of arrogant ignorance to the slightness of someone’s folly?

Are guns the mark of war or is war the maker of guns and is peace sought for the country or to show others what can be done?

And how

See for now, these questions need not be answered,

Need not be laid out and plastered over all four walls around you, need not be facebooked thousand hits, articles written and perceptions altered.

For these are rhetoric, these are ponderings, Derelict from methodical algorithms.

They are unanswerable for the masses, but entertained by oneself. The answer you provide.

For you are the blind man that can see through your eyes, if you would just use them and let your deaf ears hear your own rhythm, let your own speech provide the hymn let your wars be fought on all four fronts of sight, sound, touch and smell. And let your heart swell. Let your life be your guide, your perceptions be your mind and remove yourself from manipulation.

For then and only then will your angels sing.