Life in society is a strange and confusing concept. People search all their lives to find “purpose” and ”acceptance”. We all strive and take drastic measures to achieve one or the other, if not both. These two valuable concepts are what people focus all their attention and energy around. Acceptance and purpose are more precious than any kind of currency, gem or any other good in the entire world. Travel the world and visit any country, and you will find that every society idolizes these two gods. No one can live without one or the other. We desperately clutch at these phantom wisps that disparate into the wind. We cry for what is out of reach.
As you post that photoshopped picture onto Instagram, as you dance provocatively in front of the camera to post onto Tiktok, you will know deep down these desperate attempts for attention are all but meaningless. Perhaps you should ask yourself if purpose and acceptance are even things of substance. Perhaps, you ask yourself, do they even exist at all?
Itching, clawing, ragged breathing.
Barely containing the rage that’s seething.
Out of the pits, I crawl to see the day.
Looking at my hands, disrupted clay.
Screams are useless, deafened by silence;
Thoughts morphing into acts of violence.
Who would listen to the desperate words I say?
I came from this earth disrupted clay.
Bathed in the ashes of polluted soil,
The sight of my face makes me recoil.
What should have been skin now wreaks of decay.
Flesh no longer exists in this disrupted clay.
No love, no peace; only a burning primal desire
To purge this distorted shell with fire.
My mind is strung out in disarray.
Abandoning all reason of thought within this disrupted clay.
“Hold my beer and watch me.”
I’ve tried a lot of things in my life, trying to be what I need to be at the time. I like to stretch myself outside of my comfort zone quite a few times. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I land straight on my duff. But at least I’m trying, right? So let me put down my drink and see what I can do.
You’ve found your path, your purpose.
You say you’re doing this “for us.”
You say you’e doing this the future.
Whether this is the truth, I don’t know for sure.
I want to feel your sincerity,
Reaching deep within, clawing for some clarity.
Around and around we go around our affairs
Until there’s nothing left to blame but the silent air.
Frustration builds, emotions run wild.
You treat me as though I’m no more than an unruly child.
Insults are daggers, cutting very deep.
Alone in the dark I try to muffle as I weep.
If only we could hear each other from the space between,
Maybe then there would be understanding with what we mean.
If only it were that simple.
But around and around we go, running in different circles.
“Headed down south to the land of the pines,
I’m thumbin’ my way into North Caroline.
Starin’ up the road and pray to God I see headlights.”
My voice was hushed, almost a whisper, as I sang this song in the darkness. It was the only song I could think of to sing as my newborn baby boy laid in my arms. My son looked up at me with wide eyes, that I could make out by the light of the moon filtering through the window, soft and gentle as a caress.
This was the third insomniac night in a row, just home from the hospital. I felt afraid to go to bed. Sleep deprivation scrambled my thoughts and plagued me with a strange anxiety. For whatever the reason may have been, the lyrics calmed my nerves, grounding me to this precious, quiet moment.
“I made it down the coast in seventeen hours,
Pickin’ me a bouquet of dogwood flowers
And I’m a-hopin’ for Raleigh, I can see my baby tonight.”
This was the only thing I could focus on. Only this moment. I battled the questions in my hyperactive brain. What am I supposed to do now? How can I care for him for the rest of my life? What if I mess up? What if he never sleeps? As the thoughts jabbed through my head, I took a calming breath and continued with my song.
“So, rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel,
Rock me, mama, any way you feel.
Hey… mama, rock me.
Rock me, mama, like the wind in the rain,
Rock me, mama, like a southbound train.
Hey… mama, rock me.”
Ever so slowly, heavy eyelids drooped over sleepy eyes of my son, and I felt mine following suit. Gently, I laid my baby beside me as I sleepily sang the rest of the song, forgetting half the words. Sleep encompassed the both of us, as I wrapped my arms around the now sleeping boy. The release of slumber was so sweet, tears slid down my cheeks as my brain phased into dreams. Everything was going to be alright. There would be endless days ahead of music to share with my sweet child.
Nature or Nurture
Are people born evil? Or is it sculpted within a person? There is a consistent correlation with every serial killer, pedophile or sociopath: trauma. Whether it is sexual abuse as a child, witnessing a horrifying event, or trauma in the womb, an event of significant negative influence must happen to damage a certain part of the brain in order for a person to be shaped into an “evil” person. Of course, just to clarify, not every person suffering from trauma becomes “evil”. Evil is not born within a person; it is woven through vulnerable, broken minds.
Greetings from a New User
Hello, I would like to recognize my favorite writer, EasterFlowers1, and how I enjoyed reading their work, “On Brazen Stones”. I felt this piece spoke wonders about a father’s guidance from childhood, through adolescence, teenage years, until adulthood when we venture out for ourselves.