November 4th

Dead things Part 16

As I got older I realised that when you buy into a lie, some component of it may become fragmented truth. Splinters of reality, something cinnamon and sweetly wrapped in nettles that pierced like daggers. We were different, yet Taurus was prone to his bizarre eratic bursts of rage. His iq a marvel, his ability to predict the outcome of any situation almost supernatural. Yet none of us had predicted this. That id be running to seek my truth, from the one person who had held such affinity in my life. My brother was a triumph at many things, yet truth and love, distorted him, he became an impolite Picasso.Messy, chaotic, interrupted. He became a puzzle i needed to solve, yet would i solve it at my own Peril? Which is more powerful fear or love? I had loved him, for many years i had hoped we would both metamorphose into some self that was accessible to the rest of the world, a piece of the jigsaw that fit. Yet i feared those episodes those moments where i would interrupt him on the brink of something, his lunacy, madness contained, terrified me. I like the rest of the world was at his Mercy. How do you function when you are so broken? How do you not ask for help,does the world not hear your weeping in the dark, the angry sobs of a heart that enraged it refuses to feel. Refuses to break, and suddenly it is as fragile as a butterflies wings, suddenly, suddenly, you are there again. Where is the crossroads in his mind? Where does the rubber meet the glue? Where pride is shelved away and finally he has to face his own truth. We are splintered, we are breaking, the iron makes sound for there is no oil, that hollow feeling, the numbness, the vacumm, does not deny pain, instead it is filled with it. Once upon a time i had dreamed i could be his whole universe that my love could be medicine. Yet as we aged i realised my brother was a tempest, and within that tempest was an anchor. If i continued this illusion, i would perish too. Yet with each new challenge, sprung a new obsession in me to be healer, medicine man, spiritiualist, counsellor, and saviour. The more the Island broke off into the faraway sea, the more i was convinced that if i could stay on it and understand it's inhabitants, learn the language of the natives, then i could be hero before his eyes. I could save him. Yet their tongue was a language of secrets and pain. The resentment began to reveal itself like an onion peel, the love i clawed for evaded me, and i found that once i had been standing with feet planted firmly upon the ground, now my arms were flailing for i was drowning. I tell you this because, well it is an open letter to plead with the heroes of the saviour complex, those with the beaming crowns from the land of we will fix it. Everybody on that Island is incomplete, that's why we look so desperately for parts to fix.

I believe i have died before, returned half a self, a phoenix with no flame, looking for fires in those with a heart that whispered such pain. Yet its pain i would translate to promise. I have loved like this many times before, this pattern of seeking, what evades you like a loose thread in the wind hoping you will coil it to your womb and it will be yours. Oil, and thread cannot turn to cement. Even cement decays for i wonder now about ageless and timeless things such as love.

Love? A word that now did not make sense , a strange algorithm snaking its way into all my contorted theories. There was no Einstein in my head to tell me what it was, for it was not reflected in the prism's of our imperfect packaged empty promise. Dad had left, the ultimate ribbon wrapped around a package of neatly clustered rotting half empty promises. Yet i had learned nothing from his mistakes. My tongue would swell with new promises each day, and the one that finally cost me my life. Taurus. I would save Taurus. I had forgotten that to speak the ancient language of all dead things, blood must be spilled.