The gentle art

I wrote a long, well-structured and beautifully astute entry about very good things. Staring at the completed text resulted in a very rare exclamation from yours truly: that's actually pretty good. Ironic, then, that I am so hesitant to publish it. Even the most eloquent material with the purest of intentions has the potential to darken the skies when matters of the heart are concerned, so I'll refrain.

Instead, then, I will speak of other good things. The gentle art of release.

As noted time and time again, there is a very substantial structure of hard to characterise principles and animalistic intuition that guides me from dawn to dusk to dawn. I don't really operate on logic or base my actions on some sort of pros/cons deduction. I go on instinct and something others might call faith. With this whimsical direction, I often misstep. But when the foolhardy nature of this ol' heart o' mine is met with welcome and likeminded output from kindred spirits, it is impossible not to feel nurtured. My lungs feel empty and my heart beats with a wild rhythm. A joyful kind of bewilderment; directionless and free. Letting the fire inside breathe through candid, unrestrained dialogue has that effect. Just to think of it makes me smile so wide I now need to remove myself from the keyboard for a moment and just, well, be. One sec.

Still I falter. Whatever stems from the recesses of this heart is often buried under discord and contradictory statements. Muted shorthand with glaring omissions, uttered in frenetic morse code. Take the sporadic and surprising regurgitation of a backhandedly dishonest thing to a person of note this very day. I immediately felt so very foul. I said I wanted something, knowing fully well it would be rejected, but the truth is I uttered it out of some sort of stumbling courtesy. A strange kind of jewel of truth wrapped in a white lie to remind someone who matters that they do indeed matter. Probably wasn't the smartest move in the handbook. But to know me intimately is to know good intentions hidden in a haze of minced words. I am at home in the smoke, a gentleman - a gentle man - concerned mostly with the fishing of pearls from the murky waters. To the untrained eye it might seem as if I were trying to drown myself.

The cold truth cannot be overlooked, however. This home doesn't feel like a home and no place feels particularly welcoming, which tells you one thing: I have nothing inside to share beyond the warmth I feel for all those who deserve it. But in the dark I am alone, without the slightest desire for company. I am balanced and harmonious with whatever this madness inside is, but to anyone else peering in for a closer look, I would be but a broken mirror. A paradox wrapped in skin, ego and attitude. I live among ruins and recognize each stone and pebble, enjoying a very tangible sense of coherency in this broken place, but I can't imagine anyone else viewing down upon the debris and seeing the logic.

But I feel good. Empty and whole, drained and rejuvenated. A shared freefall and a revelation or two go a long way to imbue a sense that not all connections are trivial. That not all words and actions are but pieces of driftwood heading towards the edge of the waterfall. Perhaps there's a bit of humiliation simmering in the pot, stemming from misreading signals and sending out some mismatched missives of my own, but it's a humorous kind of shame. Like letting a stinky one rip in an elevator and someone steps in with you. Hard not to smile like an idiot.

Still, there is a strange icy quality permeating through the faces and vistas I pass by. Even when the facade of disregard dissipates momentarily, much of what is exposed is internal and impossible for others to deduct. It probably says more about my current mindset than anything else, but this feeling of detachment is growing on me. I feel mild discomfort no matter where I am, but dare I say it feels almost... enjoyable? Fitting? A tingle only the pariah could enjoy when exposed in the crowd? I couldn't really say. Perhaps I'm merely coming to terms with my seclusion - that being a much broader concept than you might initally think - or perhaps I'm merely falling into tune with how poorly I fit into any and all schemes. For all the scars it has wrought, perhaps this trait does indeed deserve to be celebrated.

Have you learned the lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you? Have you not learned great lessons from those who braced themselves against you, and disputed passage with you?
- Whitman