It Was These Rocks

Always, I find it a struggle to be where I am. It's difficult to get the rest my body needs, in the places where it sleeps.
The people I see exacerbate a certain anxiety that I cannot understand.
And the time I spend, at their leisure, it makes for a disposition I haven't the words to express.

I neglect myself.
I don't truly see myself as needing help.
And my hideous piety lends itself to thinking like superman.
I have a saviour complex.

So here, I hide, on a page.
I'm in the ink and in the margins.
I've shrunk my world to the size of a head, sitting in sunlight, on a rock and by the water.

The waves compose lullabies in the tide as it hits the shore line.
Each lasts only for a second, but the wave continues making them for all of time, as long as the water is there.
The songs I hear are just for me and can never be recreated.

It was these rocks I came to when life began, it will be these rocks I come to when it stops.
They've give me space, solitude and romance.
And like a portal, they let me see into another world, one I seem to understand.

They speak to me, these rocks.
They appear to be cold and lacking life, but they hold an energy and wisdom.
They taught me to remember my insignificance, in the complexion of the earth.
They've shown me the duality of nature, in waters calm and brutal.
And though they've been eroding ever since the beginning, I see their inculpable beauty.

So when I leave these rocks and remember where I am, I feel all the more prepared to stay
in a world where I do not belong.

jf.x