Rogue Wave

Knowing is first.  Or is it?  Not believing, hoping, not faith, or wanting.  Knowing is based in fact not fantasy.  Need is fact - an absolute, want is fantasy - a perception.  There's the beginning, or is it the end?

The experience of the flighty high.  A potent, maniac, limbic chemical, the alluring concoction of overt behavior and consciousness.  A heady drug imprinting on the malleable mind.  Conquering it's devastation, with everything, with nothing, circling like a predator, waiting, making its indelible mark.  The pitch-black headache, buried under the rubble of grief.

Snapshots of page impressions on the mind, pictures, dreams, incarnations of the persona you invented, who you wish to be.  Who will you be today?  This frame in time, that's all there is.  A kidnapper, stealing your guile, but leaving the wrapping we know as the body.  His empathetic plight.   You captured in his bond - refusing to leave your tormentor.  Bound by your unspoken agreement, a promise given in a glance. 

A rogue wave engulfs you, you trustingly do not thrash for air.  The white crests boil and retreat.  The eddy pulls you under the current beneath the surface.  Above the water and light - a halo, a cloaked Aepyornis borne from Etherus's miraculous malaiaic temple.  The mystical facets fractional light, seducing your soul.  Behind the falling water and rock, a cavern, the dark place you have hidden,  a gravitational implosion you need, not want to fill.  In the crow's nest of your mind's eye, you willingly welcome the stranger, trusting.  The kidnapper, no longer an alien, the interloper is your countrymen.  

Chits neatly stacked like casino chips, easy come, easy go, let it ride.  Printed ticker-tape promises folded and tucked away, love notes from a Lothario.  The villainous pact of a better life.  A life without worry.  You slipping into the cool unspoiled togs, starched and smooth, they lure you, fleetingly embracing your psyche, your heart, your hands.  David's secret chord whispering Hallelujah. 

Your old rags aged, torn, spent, marked by history, frayed with experience, much like your life.  Unearthing regret in the most sensible part of your heart, betraying your empirical being. These worn bits make them yours, they have seen your life, these hand me downs.  Wanting to start over, reinventing oneself, looking the part.  Out with the old, in with the new -  You.

The world breaks everyone, when healed you are stronger in the broken places.  Bringing you back to the place you were borne - the silence, the breath, the life.  It is all stitched into who you are, not who you will be.