All That Remains with Me from Spiraling Firestorms of the Cosmic Heart

As will happen, sometimes, when I least expect it, or when I am pushing myself too hard and yet won’t back down, as I did today, I fall into a deep and confusing state of melancholy. It’s usually pretty minor, but it’s constant enough to characterize me as a person. Indeed, I am in many respects a sad individual. I don’t uphold this publicly, or try not to, but sometimes, I have to just admit to myself that I have fallen into a state of sadness, because that is my character.

I’m not sure what finally did it for me this time, though there are some suspects. First off, I’ve been thinking about how I’m going to prepare for a public input discussion on Utah’s policy of homelessness today, and that’s causing me some angst. I’m wondering, can I make a difference? Can I serve the community and those in need? Another suspect is another attempt I made today to help the homeless: I stopped by the Homeless Youth Resource center today, and they gave me an email of a person to contact to see if I can do some writing for them, in some form or another, to help increase public discussion on homelessness. Due to past experience and my conditioning, I’m expecting it to fail miserably, even given a lengthy and in-depth letter I wrote to the person, showing my humanity and my compassion for this subject. The third suspect is simply a requestioning of myself as a human. I still don’t know who I am. Phoenix is a mystery to me, and it drives me insane. I made a video on the philosophy of homosexuality that can be found on my YouTube page, and just thinking about some of the issues that these people face is enough to discourage me. I also saw that the first African American mayor of a city was blocked by police, from entering City Hall: That is a blatant abuse of power, and it makes me sad that that happened.

Anyway, I think the main reason why I’m in a little state of confusion right now, is because of the contents of the poem I’m going to share. That is, indeed, that I don’t get it. I don’t get who I am, what my role in this world is, and I think the poem makes that apparent, by my blatant confusion on how to deal with the kids in the poem (it was a real story, by the way). Such deep probing questions often plunge me into despair. I recently read that people that do work, mainly hard labor, are better off because they don’t have time to think about their existence; I think sometimes I would agree. But once you start questioning your existence, you can’t stop, especially when things keep happening, and you keep being disappointed.

Anyway: enjoy the poem. I hope you can relate to it. I hope you find something beautiful within it. Beautiful: beauty. That’s what I seek to convey as a writer. Is, beauty.

 

All That Remains with Me

What really matters is fleeting.

It moves too quickly.
I can’t touch it.
I can’t hold it.

I saw two kids today,
asking for water cups
at their local Subway.

I didn’t know who they were,
if they were homeless
or just happy.

If they were innocent
or merely children.

One of the boys was holding a pair
of toy handcuffs.
The kid wanted to get to know me.
He kept trying to get my attention
indirectly.

Innocently.

Harmlessly.

I pretended not to notice,
so as not to admit
I wanted to play too.

He put the cuffs on my wrist.
He pretended to arrest me.

I told him later, clumsily, weakly,
that he’d arrested me.

What I really meant
was that he’d arrested my spirits.

I didn’t know who he was,
where he wanted to go in life,
why he seemed to like me:

I was no one.

But he took something from me nonetheless.
He stole something I cannot get back.

I felt the ineffable warmth,
spiritual in nature, transcendent.

Beautiful.

What is that warmth?
I have felt it on numerous occasions,
always with kids.

They have led me to believe
that I radiate that warmth,
even though it doesn’t seem that way.

It is sunlight.
It is warm.

It arrests me.
And I can’t put it into words.

It steals something from me,
and I can’t explain it.

I can only surrender
to the higher pain of the universe,

to the subtle truths that evade.

The kids hurt me.
The kids always hurt me.

But at least they are
a gently burning sun,

and they don’t arrest me
without my permission:

they merely ask if I want to play.

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