A View Through the Eastern Window

No one really understood what flowed through his head, they only thought they knew but to be sure they only knew how emotional content touched a little to close to home for them and they had to back away.

No one knew the storms that raged through his heart and if they did they would not know what to say or do and would only walk away shaking their heads.

There was little in their experience to reconcile it with and what there was would only frighten them and the inevitable distance would come between them.

People swore that they could see his emotions rolling off of him, given to extremes was what they always said – but they never really understood where those extremes came from, he tried to explain but no one ever really seemed to listen, again and again the dreams would wake him and he was sure he could see them as they formed around the corners of his mind as they gathered strength for the debut and encores.

On stormy nights the lightning would illuminate the room where he sat and spoke to the darkness, now he is older but still the same in so many ways especially the ways in which he thinks and reacts and then comes back to square one again and again and all the same resolving over and over that no one will ever be able to understand.

He is lonely, afraid and no one knows.

His mind is closed and tucked away out of necessity and self preservation and those closed off places are so weird and twisted that anyone who gets in there would never be able to get out again.

This chronology is laid out clearly to him but is distorted and misleading to everyone else.
He always watched Danny when he was first to go sliding on the thin ice near the rectory and on snow days Kevin was always the first to go down the big hill despite all the danger and in the face of all the excitement.

The parts of him that held back were well known and always running just below the surface, his courage was an unseen courage.

If they knew the thin ice that he walked on in his mind there would have been a lot of admiration and respect but as usual it always went unsaid.

Bless him father for he has sinned, he is not capable of being honest and though he is aware he cannot bring himself to speak about his thoughts, soothe his soul oh lord!

He suffers and he knows it! He never knows when his thoughts will come but he knows they are always there – “the body and blood of Christ” he receives but he does not understand.

” There are those who think they are righteous because they say yes to God – but they do not do his will….. ”

He knows but he does not really understand, he wants to be left alone with his peculiar thoughts that he feels he can never let anyone know, he grows comfortable with the darkness and the barriers he has built.

He wonders if those he loves could possibly slow down a bit and come to him in his own terms? Holding out hands to touch and comfort – no more slaps and ridicule.

Another winter evening settles down and the cold fingered fog is welcomed and feared at the same time, he surveys the lonely street, dark and quiet, full of shadows that tell lonely stories – something for everyone but nothing to be found.

What demented dreams have given root to those shadows that guide him along to all the places he visits again and again?

A part of him is dead already and that part testers and stinks and prowls around his parameters that never go quiet, this winter season is perfect for him, cold, dead and glistening in the night, the patterns of frost are never duplicated.

Still he is aware of the parts of him that remember those spring nights when the wind carried life in its gusts, despite the distance the songs of that time call to him.

“Now it is time for something that may or may not make sense to the causal observer but to him it is his very existence….. Fantasy world time of carnival themes that play and play without sensual lyrics but the story plays to his senses just the same…..”

He walks with his eyes fixed on the streets before him, his eyesight is strained and he wonders what tomorrow will bring and it becomes like living in a barren forest that is full of trees that keep out light and never lets in the fullness of the day.

The ground is dry, dirt turned to dust for want of rain, sunset reflecting red and sweaty faces, breeze carrying whining and sarcastic voices, lullabies of yesterday have faced out and the night ahs settled in.

What comes next will determine tomorrow – the line to life of only this dusk will give way to daytime.

He needs to slow down, walk instead of run.

Sleep instead of pacing around with glasses of wine and lit cigarettes, advice and counsel since finding his own way is clearly not working…..

Across the Eastern window the sunrise comes…..but will it reach his eyes?

T.S. Deary