the_withering_darkness :..S e e d S.:...o f...:.L i g h T..: At the beginning of each cycle is birth. At the end of each cycle... is death. But toward the end of each cycle. The skies darken, the plants wither. The fruit rots into the ground. It seems the Living Beauty of Nature is not without a sense of pain. The amount of light directly effects the abundance of life. The withering darkness is a weapon against growth. But it seems the cockroaches do not understand this. For they scurry into the darkness when the light comes near. They cling to their filth when their night is threatened. When all of a sudden, the human realizes that source of imortality is... permanent sonlight. 010802 ... oldephebe i freaking die in the dark but i can't stand the light christmas morning..my little boy and my stepkids and my lovely wife all glowing and i feel this abysmal emptiness i sing a sad aria and the crowd rises to it's feet..and men and women rush up to me afterwards and compliment me...and i feel nothing once i leave the piano stops playing and the stage lights go down..i float through the parties..the cast parties and women who barely know me in thier eyes i see a yearning and all i can reflect back is this empty echo of what i think should sound humble or sociable but...it just came off like i was overtly and absurdly shy or withdrawn or kinda concieted...but it was neither...at work a few so-worker get me a birthday card and a few tokens of appreciation and there is nothing... i was only alive in the lights. i only feel real when i open my scar strewn soul i'm fading and no one seems to notice or care..even those that are bound to me by blood and or long association perhaps they are tired of seeing me so sad all the time buck up buddy! Be there for your son, your mom your siblings, your estranged friends who can always count on your sober shoulders to cry on and lean on and speak thier confessionals into the heart of someone who is more than alive..so it doesn't really matter if you know all of thier secrets...there's a line from joss whedon's "once more with feeling" episode of buffy where spike sings to buffy in season 6 that you sing your cofessionals in a dead mans ear... i mean what if i did ascend to become the spiritual leader of some modest presbyterian church with all of this melancholy..what good would i have been to the people who would NEED me? i was aked a few weeks ago by someone when and or if i would ever return to the ministry...i answered in a beleagered and yet sincere tone..someday..that would be nice..i really want to..but not just right now..i'm not ready..i really meant that i'm not FIT to clasp on the clerics collar. I've spread my dreams beneath a fallen wall. And there is this quality in me of a night forever dying--and I can't get the glow back. I've had times of plentifude in my life when money wasn't such a big deal..and still the shadow stalked my frozen soul..and I've had times of poverty...there is little difference--i mean the panic has a different urgency to it when you're struggling to feed several mouths but.. though in my emotional state...i sit before the mirage in the desert and watch the dance of deep shadows, i search for its detail and amidst the dancing strands of fire i look for myself...some kindred kiss of myself in these spiraling almost flourescent confetti streams... i put on some natalie merchant and every word strikes my heart, it strikes the corner stone of my faith and there is a scream in my soul and a frustration in my spirit... i want to tell those who look at me like..what the hell is wrong with you? Why are you so moody or dark or withdrawn...you've lost the drive to compete, to win. The truth is..is that i've NEVER had the desire to compete or win, even as a child. It wasn't because i was weak..it was just because..i didn't CARE..could i just touch someones heart..briefly..could i feel its fire? could we just sit in circle and play folk songs on the guitar and sing all night and stumble into our cabins and fall upon our cots in a kind of exhausted joy? ... 050902 what's it to you? who go blather from