Telling Life Like Stories

My story is my self-love,

Framing my existence against odds and fate.

I’ve never not been telling myself

How I relate to everything I love.

Sometimes everything means nothing

Logic draws an empty shape

A void of anxiety or dread,

The overwhelming potential of a blank page.

In confrontation with this,

My beating heart vs the blind night,

I tell the tale of “I” and “Us”

Displacing emptiness with narrative form.

The sharpened edge of reality fades,

Never abating, but making space for creation.

I draw meaning out of thin air

And weave it as I’m best able.

I exist, therefore I tell a story.

I value truth and beauty because I listen.

Every fleeting moment is somewhere

Between a comedy, tragedy, and romance,

But even the finest prose,

Is little more than painted dust,

Fractals to be discarded and neglected,

Swallowed whole by eternity.

It’s an absurd story,

Sound and fury told by an idiot,

The dearest fantasy of my heart

Like late autumn leaves.

Absurdity, my idol,

Language of passions and pleasures,

Defying inevitable complexity

To take rapture in the fantastical.

Laugh at my solemnity,

Existence makes us lunatics,

The world is a journal for mad ramblings,

And it’s a story to be loved.

 

By Sanya Elswyth Walma.

Visit my Patreon to help me keep creating and for exclusive poetry and other writings.

 

 

 

 

 

A Modern Rumination

When I discarded my religion,
I found a world that I’d been missing
Already in motion
Without my conscious participation.
Simultaneously, I couldn’t help noticing
The blandness of modern humans
Chasing superficial pleasures
As though nothing else exists.
The abandonment of false purpose
Both liberates and destroys,
A hollow heart hurts to carry
But has capacity to be filled.
Values like certainty and purity
Are irreplaceable once they’re gone,
Vitality and wisdom
Filling in to hold their shape.
There’s a whole horizon to fall into,
An endless void of discordance
To construct, reflect, and internalize,
A perpetual stream of absurd meanings.
There’s no clear answer,
No guarantee of another life,
No genuine good or evil,
But there are endless things to analyze.

I Called Myself Prisoner

I still imagine myself chained to the wall of some dark place,
Wanting to scream myself sore.
I carry that image even in my calmest moments,
Knowing it always has the potential to surface.
It’s not an image I invented,
It’s something I impulsively conceived.
I’m trained to see everyone as a treat,
Even the most well-meaning person could uncover me,
Force me to feel things I’d forced down
And expose my shameful needs without warning.
I can’t afford to be a nearly six-foot male,
Dressed in all black, crying in front of others
For the sake of my own self-pity
And consistent self-neglect.
I can’t afford to open myself up
To anymore ridicule and scrutiny
Over factors I can’t explain, or even understand,
Even though I feel them potently.
There’s just something unbearably wretched
About having your own issues neglected
Or treated like a waste of time
Simply because you can’t express them convincingly.
And worse, being perceived as melodramatic,
Stubborn, over sensitive, or seeking attention
Or pitied in the wrong way, pitied from superficial superiority
As though you’re clearly missing the point.
I live with that image in my head,
Chained and shrieking in a cold, dark place,
And it isn’t just one thing, it’s a host of repressed issues,
All compounded into an overwhelming reason to stay down,
But it’s killing me,
It’s literally destroying my capacity to feel good.
I’m in a precarious state,
Feeling my way blindly out of the dark,
Allowing myself to be seen in short bursts
So I don’t feel so encased.
All the old fears follow me,
My doubts and trepidations,
My internalized images and insecurities
And my methods of undermining them.
Fuck being self-contained.
Fuck holding back for other’s sake,
Fuck feeling confident about other people’s problems
Like you’re above such things.
I’m in a precarious state,
In that, I feel like letting myself go regardless who’s in the way.
I’ve become adept at being distant,
At shrouding my turbulence so thoroughly
You wouldn’t even suspect
I was witholding anything significant.
I’m still actively withdrawn,
It’s a strength I’ve come to cherish,
And I don’t know I’ll ever open up
Enough to make up for what I’ve lost,
But I’ve had enough pretending,
And choking down emotion just to feel safe.
I’m still chained up somewhere dark,
But I’m past pretending it’s nothing.

To Humans

I write despite my overdue silence,
In light of my grudges and slights,
To enlighten the thoughts and emotions
I’ve reserved for my own contemplation.
Having distanced myself so thoroughly
I’ll admit my lack of comprehension
In matters I’ve never engaged in
Or only watched from my privileged shelter,
But even when I detested you,
Counting myself among your kind,
I couldn’t help empathizing
With the burdens you’re seizing under.
It’s easy to criticize your failures,
As I’m sure there will be more,
And judge you in harshest terms
For the cruelty and neglect
You imbibe in endless cycles.
I’ve wanted too much from you,
Expected things that seem trivial,
Like a respect for shared existence
And the universality of feelings.
You break hearts too easily,
And I know they can be brittle,
But I could never quite accept
Your ugly side with ease.
Your shallowness and petty conflicts
Routinely, it seems, betray innocence
So the gentle moments you all enjoy
Are wasted for inane reasons.
You neglected me as so many others,
But I know I’m not superior.
I’ve shared your burdens
And your entitled sense of indulgence,
Took things because I wanted them
And disfigured what you thought precious.
I’ve tasted the light of hate,
The bittersweetness of callus violence
Against myself and others,
And I’ve made my justifications.
As much as I’ve despised you,
Forsook your feelings in light of mine,
I never lost that vague connection
With our sublimely tragic condition.
At your best, you make me love you,
Creating your projects of passion,
Embodying your best ideals,
Making fantasy almost tangible
And creating art from your pain.
I want to love you every second,
To comfort and be comforted,
Inspire new ideas
And converse about our tragic past.
I need to feel something better,
And I know you do as well.
For our sake,
I hope you can save yourself
From the overbearing nightmare
You’re still busily creating.
I can’t hate you any longer,
But I cannot help hate your stupidity,
Or the dismissive simplifications
You project on everything you see.
Like an addict without hope,
Burning bridges just to feed
That passive will to power
Or to distance insecurities.
You could be something beautiful,
But it’s hard to picture you
Facing up to your flaws
In any meaningful way.
You could bury yourself
Alongside your egotism,
Proudly burning us to ruin
To say you died without mistakes.
If no choice is made
We could end ourselves swiftly
Without ever really perceiving
Our consciousness in its true light.
There’d be no one to tell us
We didn’t learn from our imperfections,
And the other forms of life
Wouldn’t miss us for a day.
We’ll be what we will be,
Our beautiful tragedy,
If that’s the way you want it
I’ll be here to see it pass,
But I’ll always remember,
And I’ll probably regret
The possibilities we lost
And the parts of you that I respected.

Transition Through Fear

Control your fear,
Deaden your senses,
Listless solitude is the perfect fuel
For an existential crisis.
I’ve slowly eroded,
Turned to dust and resurfaced,
I’ve un-become the thing
That hated who I was,
The thing that hated everything
To escape what it hated being.
I can remember trembling,
A dead weight swiftly lifted,
Before recognizing myself clearly
And collapsing to the dirt.
My body is a prison,
My brain the sadistic jailer,
Holding down its prisoner
At the bottom of a well.
A glimmer in the chasm
Made to bury shameful secrets.

Looking out, it screams,
Being seen like naked eyes.
Repression is a disguise as
Recognition imbibes pain.
I am the thing that hates,
Projecting but what it contains,
Nothing but the distaste
For what I was afraid of being.
Captivity is a ritual,
As survival is to pain,
Avenging a broken heart
Buried beneath cold sentiments.
Weakness, being me,
Being something ugly,
Guilty and fragile,
And tempestuously charged.
I’m become the domineer,
Steering everything to crash
For bitterness, the sake of
The empty shape I cast.
Without a real feeling
To tamper my identity,
I freely hate the feelings
I’ve hated holding in me.
You’re everything I need,
That I vehemently despise,
Reminding me what’s real
And why I’m not really fine.
My blood draws a stop,
Distress signals overload,
Impulsively shutting down
Self-awareness and empathy.
An empty shape won’t ease,
It’s an insatiable thing,
And I’ve almost eaten
Everything I truly love
To blind myself from seeing.
Now, I’ve given in,
Unearthed the buried creature
I’d sheltered in a cage
To keep it from ever feeling.
I needed space to breathe,
Shelter, so I could think,
Awestruck by the callousness
And brutality of living.
It’s a graveyard
And a hornets’ nest,
Fear not to be feared
Not being dangerous.
I’ve tasted the comforts of malignancy.
I’ve torn my ego from its shell,
That agoraphobic parasite
I clung to like a life-vest.
I needed strength,
And the safest place to hide
For a fragile little thing
Is deep inside its mind.
Revealing an honest form,
Freshly embracing empathy and connection,
I can finally face your solemn eyes,
Even though I’m terrified.
I’ll live with myself,
Finally, I’ll risk being me,
To live for these moments
Without regret in the way.
I cannot be changed,
But I can grow and adapt,
And if we can share a love,
Or a struggle, I’ll do my best.

Assembling Meaning

Every story

Is an empathetic connection,

People and ideas

Equally entrenched in my heart.

When you speak

You create meaning to decipher,

A flowery grove

Suspended in the callus void.

Consciousness creates.

Every fantasy enriches thought.

Images and ideals

Are the angels of mortal Gods.

Artfully imperfect,

Our subtle cracks, Nature’s profundity.

Our deepest griefs

Akin to scribbles drawn with passion.

 

Souls exist in meaning exists in thought

Expressed in art to be interpreted imperfectly

By the senses of living things.

Read, write, listen, and think,

So even the damned find salvation.

 

Forests for Empty Spaces

Pleasure, satisfaction,

Common creature comforts,

Health and habitation;

Leave them with your home.

Nothing to distract you,

Nothing to build on,

Bound to wit and wilderness,

What do you become?

Sunlight burning, reddened raw.

Rocks cutting, scraping skin.

Sitting in the biting swarms.

Body aches in all its parts.

Brutality from the beautiful,

Faerie forests nearly sacred,

Hiding waterfalls and sunsets,

And myriads of stars.

Little to be done,

Even fewer things to say,

Letting go for silence

To graze on natural sounds.

Falling out,

Letting loose the inner void

And filling it somberly

With the only things around.