neural discharge

I’ve just read the most amazing blog. Before that I was gifted the third key. The writings are like incense. The writers are like an electric current running through my head, almost as if for a single  moment I am sharing the experience of which they write.  Since I learned to read at the age of five, I have always immersed myself in the writings, become a  part of the story, experienced what the writer put on paper.  Being an empath is both glorious and a curse.  Too many times I am mistake for being sympathetic or pitying, when I am simply experiencing part of what another feels.  I feel both the agonies and the ecstasies, the joys and the despair. Having been emotionally closed for so many years, the sudden onslaught of feeling has brought me the very brink of the abyss. Some days it is just too much, but I cannot stop. Feeling at all is new, feeling so much is unbelievable. I am finding my way in this medium, slowly to be sure, but finding it. You who write, and write well, I admire you. You who write the very rawness of your soul, I love you.


When I look at me through your eyes I see someone I never saw before, but is that someone real? When you close your eyes, do I go away? Do I exist only while  you are looking? Is there someone else that sees themselves in those eyes the same as I do? Skepticism has taught me that my vision is often clouded by what I would like to be true. At the end of the day, will I find that the rose coloured glasses were mine and not yours at all?  I am far more adept at seeing the pain in my own eyes than the pain in yours.  Is there a tomorrow, a future in which my questions are resolved? Is any of it real, or is it all a passing fantasy, pulling me away as a fluff of dandelion in the wind?  It is easier to be centered when it hurts, I have more experience there than elsewhere.  The sunny days have begun to fade and the grey ones are like old friends, gathered to say, “welcome home, foolish traveler, welcome home”.

That Kind of Day

There are days that it would be so much easier just to build the walls again. I think of the time that I spent emotionally distant and unavailable and actually have days that I’d like to hearken back to that. The  never ending blah, comfortably numb, bothering none and being bothered by the same.  How foolish does a teary eyed old man look?  Unbelievably so.  I am not opposed to being older, I’m somewhat taken with it, but the onslaught of emotion is like being hit in the solar plexus by a heavyweight boxer. You  know the blow is landing, you know the pain is coming, yet somehow, it is all the more painful for the knowing of it. Breathtaking, literally.  In the not so long ago, I referred to myself as the “fool on the hill”(credit to the Beatles)

“The Fool On The Hill”
The Beatles
Day after day, alone on the hill
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him
They can see that he’s just a fool
And he never gives an answer

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

Well on the way, head in a cloud
The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud
But nobody ever hears him
Or the sound he appears to make
And he never seems to notice

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

And nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do
And he never shows his feelings

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

He never listens to them
He knows that they’re the fools
They don’t like him

The fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

Song lyrics speak to me and always have. One of my earliest song memories is “Dont Sit Under The Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me”.  I’ve since learned that lyric is a romantic fantasy and the apple  tree long since died.


And so, I journey on from here. Determined to be positive, if a little skeptical.  Loving, if a little reserved. Living, if a little or a lot painful. Determined to see the truth of another Beatles lyric “and in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make.”  I am not the first to find disappointment, nor will I be the last.  Life IS, and that is what matters. No sour grapes here, just raisins.


If you spent your time reading this, my  thanks and condolences to you, xoxo


Slay me then, cruel fate, that with one hand
gives and with the other takes back all
that I hold dear, and leaves me yet to stand
alone and undone in mem’ries vacant hall
Shall I live on, despairing, waiting yet
for some reprieve, unseen, and lo I
hope against hope and hope again beget
one last glimpse of light within my eye
Come then, swiftly, o harvester of souls
reap that which for now with mortals dwell
and o’er life’s highways clothed in flesh doth roll
return to dust, as tolls the evens bell.


Close your eyes for just one moment
and if you never have before,
stop the flow of internal commentary
and listen to the heartbeat of the universe.
Less than an atom in the span of space
and time, do I really recognize my place
in the scheme of things sublime?
Hear the song of all things joined
in heavenly chorus.
Feel, and know that on forever’s scale
you, a grain of sand, may be
aggregate for reality.


who looks beyond the mask to see the tears
who takes the time to ask or share the fears
who feels the chill of wind from the abyss
who feels the thrill of a lover’s kiss
can I share what I feel with you
are you strong enough to carry on
are you one of the chosen few
or will I turn around and find you gone

The Stare

I thought of you today

as  you lay there in your sheet

at first in the expected way

but then a way far more complete


I thought of  all the lonely days

the times I wished I could be there

and then the oh so many ways

I added to that lonely stare


My darling, would that I could fly

straight to you without delay

to hold you in my arms and try

to chase that lonely stare away

Life’s Passion

When m last hour has c ome

and life is nearly o’er

as I  go through the mem’ries some

that I have kept in store

there  you are on every page.


Times that I had  hurt you

stained, wet with bitter  tears

hardest of all to view

were my own selfish fears

there upon the stage


And yet, there were shy smiles

sometimes a great big grin

though kept apart by miles

such joy there was within

me, I forgot my age


You, the fire of my years

the one for whom I longed

I thought ne’er would appear

to you my heart belongs

as passions in it rage.



Was it love or just obsession

that grew and flow’red to bloom

taking me for it’s possession

in the darkness and the gloom

The question yet remains to answer

by events untold

do I leave it all for chance or

hope within enfold

Nothing Less

Will I ever see the sparkle in your eyes

or feel the soft caress

of breath expelled in your surprise

at love, and nothing less