Intrusion © March 1989, Jacquelene Martina. Told in 6 chapters, I create routine, to control it, but I get curious, and ask: What about an intrusion? Warning: Contains passages, some might find upsetting.
A void of unimaginable prospects. Let the darkness speak. If you listen, don?t understand. It is not the truth. The voice of silence is tremendous. Heed not. Run! In the realm of stillness lies dormant, the reality of my Being. An eternity, measured as being seventy one years, have listlessly elapsed. I feel the void in my experiences and this makes me restless, insatiable, dispirited. Gloom abides, all around. Nothing guides my search. If I fall, when I fall, I neither float or stand still. I am one with it. One with a transcendent force I know not of. What do I seek? Why is the present not whole for my reality? I want my Being to awake. I am not. I created a being, I can not exist with. It is suppressing me. What is real now? It, or me?
My memory guides me into destruction. If I forget what occurred previously, I have a chance. My conditioned memory. I can not register anything real, without going back to what is already engraved in my memory. I deform, and camouflage to beautify it. It, that bird, knows. If I have no memory, I have peace, a renewed life. I become a born again Being, unlike the wanderers to the field.
I encounter a hatred I never understood its genesis. But it is there, in my memory. An ever present hatred of my Being. Poisoned. My active perception is deranged, poisoned. When real experiences filter into my memory, they are twisted, made repulsive, filthy. I become filth. I have no memory, I have peace. Renewed life. I become a born again Being. Not like the travellers to the field. Born again? Never. Too many poisoned memories. I forget, they recall and poison. I, alone. Restless, Angry, Non-real. Where will stillness lead me? To what constant? Why does my current reality seek a constant? A security? This is what I have become, my creation. Fear drives me to constants. If I knew what they call 'the future', would I be at peace? I would only be at peace, if I were to determine and alter what they call 'The future'. Who determines my future? Who has done so? Who has turned me into this Hypocrite I am? I have to be alike their recollection of me. Safety. For them. They destroy me with their thoughts and opinions and desires and aspirations about themselves. Thoughts and opinions, desires and aspirations that never ever included me. They caused my emptiness now. Do they idolise pleasers? I am not identities. I am one. I hurt from being torn into fragments, I barely can identify myself with: Observation and Interpretation. I feel. Afterwards. Always afterwards. Afterwards is what is not real. It is gone. The moment has past. Eternity is renewed. I am renewed. I am part of, if not eternity. I seek solace, peace, because I keep returning. I never depart. My experience is yesterday's. I see through what I have engraved in my memory: the fears, the hatred, the shame, the hurt. I hear something. I hear flapping of wings. I feel a sudden sadness come over me. To move away from this body, with its memories, saddens me. I did no good coming here.
I am not real. Hatred, fed by fear, makes me so unreal. Where am I in this eternity? What makes reality something real? I am this, or am I what I seek? Ability to see, feel and interpret, makes it unreal. The interpretation. Interpretation. I observe, I interpret, I feel. Afterwards. Always afterwards. Afterwards is what is not real. It is gone. The moment has past. Eternity is renewed. I am renewed. I am part of, if not eternity. I seek solace, peace, because I keep returning. I never depart. My experience is yesterday's. I see through what I have engraved in my memory: the fears, the hatred, the shame, the hurt. I hear something. I hear flapping of wings. I feel a sudden sadness come over me. To move away from this body, these memories, saddens me. Why do I find fault? I did no good coming here.
She is no longer with me. She has departed. I am alone. I am being carried away. I do not know it, but I am flying. I am returning. I am being taken back, to where there is no black bird, no Imagination. No creation. A place, I will either, finally, have my Silence, or where I will vanish in the Void.
I am my own destructive ideas. I am sensitive. I seek understanding of things I do not understand. Yet I seek. Power, control, power. Makes me want to creep into darkness and remoteness. Into the realm of Stillness. A young fragile temporary being, why am I dominated by such a massive concept? Yes, a concept, not a reality. A burden. Weak. Unable. These are my definitions of me. Whispered in my head. In the same breath, but far louder: fight, control, fight, control. I can feel its presence. Listen! Pay attention. Nothing else is required here. Sole Attention. I am being carried away. I do not know it, but I am flying. I am returning. I am being taken back. She is no longer with me. She has departed. I am alone. In here, there is no black bird. I look into big brown eyes. I see half a face, a dark face, short black white curly hair with locks, white, since young adulthood. The smiling eyes will drown me, I am sure. There are mere fictions of my imagination. They will drown me nevertheless. I am that face. I fly back, back to relive those haunting echoes of voices that are not even mine. I do not know what it is I want. All what I have, is fake. All I want is to quiet the voices that pressure and condemn me. I am tired. This wearies me down.
I will help you. It intrudes, out of nowhere, and will take me to where I want to go. But I don’t want to follow. I want to stay. To what purpose? The urge to go, is strong. The urge to welcome this intrusion, is strong. Help has not been of any use to me, in my past. Move away from that. I pick and choose what shapes me. My past doesn't hold who I am, in the now. Who I can become, with time. I won’t be put to flight no more. I nest, now, with what's chosen by me, that ravels not.
SIX
She walks steadily towards the woods. It is time. Eternity has manifested itself in this moment. The house stands silently, awaiting her return. The sun, the earth, the music of the field, will all await her return. She is firm, determined. Her awaits glory, on her return. She approaches the woods with long strides. Beauty comes with her. No hesitation. The thick trees await her as well. Dark green leaves, still, no motion. The wind does not caress these trees. They are there to mark a boundary. They have no further purpose. They hide darkness and evil. They are so unwelcoming to her. No opening is to be found. But like the others before, she will find an entrance. She goes with determination, a purpose. Nothing can withhold such tenacity. She disappears into the woods. I accompany her.A void of unimaginable prospects. Let the darkness speak. If you listen, don?t understand. It is not the truth. The voice of silence is tremendous. Heed not. Run! In the realm of stillness lies dormant, the reality of my Being. An eternity, measured as being seventy one years, have listlessly elapsed. I feel the void in my experiences and this makes me restless, insatiable, dispirited. Gloom abides, all around. Nothing guides my search. If I fall, when I fall, I neither float or stand still. I am one with it. One with a transcendent force I know not of. What do I seek? Why is the present not whole for my reality? I want my Being to awake. I am not. I created a being, I can not exist with. It is suppressing me. What is real now? It, or me?
My memory guides me into destruction. If I forget what occurred previously, I have a chance. My conditioned memory. I can not register anything real, without going back to what is already engraved in my memory. I deform, and camouflage to beautify it. It, that bird, knows. If I have no memory, I have peace, a renewed life. I become a born again Being, unlike the wanderers to the field.
I encounter a hatred I never understood its genesis. But it is there, in my memory. An ever present hatred of my Being. Poisoned. My active perception is deranged, poisoned. When real experiences filter into my memory, they are twisted, made repulsive, filthy. I become filth. I have no memory, I have peace. Renewed life. I become a born again Being. Not like the travellers to the field. Born again? Never. Too many poisoned memories. I forget, they recall and poison. I, alone. Restless, Angry, Non-real. Where will stillness lead me? To what constant? Why does my current reality seek a constant? A security? This is what I have become, my creation. Fear drives me to constants. If I knew what they call 'the future', would I be at peace? I would only be at peace, if I were to determine and alter what they call 'The future'. Who determines my future? Who has done so? Who has turned me into this Hypocrite I am? I have to be alike their recollection of me. Safety. For them. They destroy me with their thoughts and opinions and desires and aspirations about themselves. Thoughts and opinions, desires and aspirations that never ever included me. They caused my emptiness now. Do they idolise pleasers? I am not identities. I am one. I hurt from being torn into fragments, I barely can identify myself with: Observation and Interpretation. I feel. Afterwards. Always afterwards. Afterwards is what is not real. It is gone. The moment has past. Eternity is renewed. I am renewed. I am part of, if not eternity. I seek solace, peace, because I keep returning. I never depart. My experience is yesterday's. I see through what I have engraved in my memory: the fears, the hatred, the shame, the hurt. I hear something. I hear flapping of wings. I feel a sudden sadness come over me. To move away from this body, with its memories, saddens me. I did no good coming here.
I am not real. Hatred, fed by fear, makes me so unreal. Where am I in this eternity? What makes reality something real? I am this, or am I what I seek? Ability to see, feel and interpret, makes it unreal. The interpretation. Interpretation. I observe, I interpret, I feel. Afterwards. Always afterwards. Afterwards is what is not real. It is gone. The moment has past. Eternity is renewed. I am renewed. I am part of, if not eternity. I seek solace, peace, because I keep returning. I never depart. My experience is yesterday's. I see through what I have engraved in my memory: the fears, the hatred, the shame, the hurt. I hear something. I hear flapping of wings. I feel a sudden sadness come over me. To move away from this body, these memories, saddens me. Why do I find fault? I did no good coming here.
She is no longer with me. She has departed. I am alone. I am being carried away. I do not know it, but I am flying. I am returning. I am being taken back, to where there is no black bird, no Imagination. No creation. A place, I will either, finally, have my Silence, or where I will vanish in the Void.
I am my own destructive ideas. I am sensitive. I seek understanding of things I do not understand. Yet I seek. Power, control, power. Makes me want to creep into darkness and remoteness. Into the realm of Stillness. A young fragile temporary being, why am I dominated by such a massive concept? Yes, a concept, not a reality. A burden. Weak. Unable. These are my definitions of me. Whispered in my head. In the same breath, but far louder: fight, control, fight, control. I can feel its presence. Listen! Pay attention. Nothing else is required here. Sole Attention. I am being carried away. I do not know it, but I am flying. I am returning. I am being taken back. She is no longer with me. She has departed. I am alone. In here, there is no black bird. I look into big brown eyes. I see half a face, a dark face, short black white curly hair with locks, white, since young adulthood. The smiling eyes will drown me, I am sure. There are mere fictions of my imagination. They will drown me nevertheless. I am that face. I fly back, back to relive those haunting echoes of voices that are not even mine. I do not know what it is I want. All what I have, is fake. All I want is to quiet the voices that pressure and condemn me. I am tired. This wearies me down.
I will help you. It intrudes, out of nowhere, and will take me to where I want to go. But I don’t want to follow. I want to stay. To what purpose? The urge to go, is strong. The urge to welcome this intrusion, is strong. Help has not been of any use to me, in my past. Move away from that. I pick and choose what shapes me. My past doesn't hold who I am, in the now. Who I can become, with time. I won’t be put to flight no more. I nest, now, with what's chosen by me, that ravels not.