I called this imperfections. I think of my wise father. I think of my struggle with depression as a blank slate. I am strong but I am tired.
Words can inspire change.
I think of the mother tongue of grief, everything I have lost but also everything I have gained. I stride forward. A woman only has the power a man gives her. I think of your noble laugh, the nobility of your soul, all the holistic laws behind your principled thought and vision.
Think to myself, no one will ever believe the life that he has lived.
There’s no more hiding in the wild for me anymore. You see the whole of the composed and grounded moon. Little stars carry the infinite wisdom of the universe like gravity. I mean to tell you a legend. I think of my tortured loneliness and everything that came before this steadfast happiness and I want to ask my dad why he stayed with my mother, why my mother never speaks to me. The past can sometimes leave fingerprints for the future. I want to remember this happiness. Then there’s the obvious sadness, unhappiness, depression, melancholy, stress and everything is tidal and my heart is the traveller.
Everyday I wonder how you are. I hope that you are proud of me too.
You are teachers.
Taught me that there is nothing greater than community and spiritual enlightenment. I think of speech and prayers and songs. This is a prayer too. A prayer for all the people that care for me. I know the pain of rejection by association. And always want to know what inspired you to think of that when you are through writing. This is just the beginning. To us. The roots are taking shape beneath, underneath the fabric of this universe. Memories spill back. The heart of family life. You are powerful, contemporary writer. Downhill, I finally come to all my imperfections, immerse myself in prose.
Luminous, accumulating movement and subtlety I write about tenderness, strange torment and vertigo as if it is a testament, with mastery.
Finally, I write to you, the one who inspires me, the exceptional writer in you. You, with the literary voice. As a writer I believe in your voice. In your work, I believe in your vision.
But whoever wrote a plan. He is my protector. He is all the stars when my head is high. He is my calm. He understands when I am strong, when I am tired. He is my strength and conviction. He is all my love and protection. He loves me with a selfless love. He is giving of enormous heart. He is compelling in his vision of the world. The arrangement of particles of light can be found in his eyes. He is gratitude, all the origins of the art of gold, he is sigh towards God, all the subtleties of romantic love, he is the divine found in the supernatural, the centre of my world, every forged turning point positing itself, he is influential, he is sprawling powerful contemporary, he is gifted storyteller who gives of himself with dignity in his prose. He is scientist, prophet, poet and all I am is hope. He is never demanding in all of his unshowy glory.
He is sweeping amazement beneath my door, dazzling, elegant, settling and unsettling. He has the secrets of my heart, this beloved. And when I am missing him, sometimes my mood darkens past midnight in the early hours of the morning. When something breaks in me that commands and beckons emotional camaraderie and the mastery of wisdom to me. He knows and understands my isolation with perfection that takes ownership of humanity. He knows I am still hopeful when I am spinning spinning spinning heartbroken too. He interprets all of my dreams with his tenderness and moorings. He sees things as they are, while all I see are random acts of despair and hardship. In my loneliness, he is there. I am following through. Following through on something new.
It’s called love. I am emptiness without him. I am old, getting older but he is all my reasons, the centre holding me together. He is one of a kind people who walks through life with grace and abundance.
I love him unfailingly, with an excellent and capable heart. He is all the pioneering dimensions of a mountain. The professionalism of astronomy is in his hands, the planets and starlight wonder in his eyes, the salutary writing school in his every assignment, value in his good nature, wildflowers and the sky in his gaze. I think of him with joy for he teaches me to use every emotional experience to the full, the fabric of the universe becomes like a collection of short stories, tidal, exceptional and unique. He teaches me to pray for hope and understanding. To imagine time and place in the deep gravity of the world. He goes aside quietly and works like a scientist. The art is conservative. It is a path less travelled. The ark. It is a symbol like the design of stillness in the air just invented. The moonlight is half-embodied in its element. The sun is a love supreme, made up of the higher learning of the universe, uniting all forms of cosmic life force and energy, the same way he does.
He is the breathless meaning of fellowship while I am a poet. He is poet and traveller and motivator and communicator. He is creator, winter’s retreat and creativity and all the waves, arrangements, celebrations and equilibrium found in stride. I have realised writing is a gift. Writing about people and I write to him with authority. He is noble warrior, prayerful, mindful, spiritual. All I have is this vision of him, the knowledge that his purpose is life. I am thinking of all his consciousness as a writer. While I journal a page away in a diary. He is my diary caught by the river, all my black Croxley notebooks, he is the garden that is my canvas and it feels written, mused, a calling and I’ve realised that writers need patience like titans at work and poets in transit.
