The Ache

edward-scissorhands-suburbia

Why have we strayed so far away from our roots to find some appropriated facsimile of so called “home”?
I have inklings of memory: memory of lost love, of dust; memory of battles, blood, and wine. Of words I don’t understand but I still feel. I remember, I guess I’ve always remembered.

Modern blood lines and blurred borders. Unsavoury connections, and disheartening observations. All connected to recent descendants – my own disdain for my living lineages; an eschew of comfortably strayed spiritually stunted children. Rejecting the idea of tribal law, generations of memory traded for what?
Stucco siding and a manicured flower garden. Handicapped by choice, because a life of feigned ignorance is an easy life.

“Bah” I said “Not me!”

I abhor not the people but the aspects of society that twisted the warrior within myself towards such disapprobation. How could I be a guardian to anyone, or any place with such contempt for the present? And I do so see myself as a guardian in training to this gracious Turtle Island. Whether or not I live up to that, is not for me to say.
Those who have pained she who moulded me, she who gave me life, she of whom I want always to protect. I -within the constrains of my audacious hero syndrome- hold such an fierce anger towards them.

These broken ones have unpurposefully bruised and tarnished my bond to what once was (old lang syne). Hands in the air, Nose up, and lip curled I refused their fear of living. Often to a fault.

Although – sometimes, I do this with far too much an of adolescent attitude. This upheaval has to end. I am tired of being an earthquake all of the time. I want to be a calm sea, a night sky, I want to be a forest fire.
We are all connected, and I enjoy educating myself in worldly theology, fable and history. I enjoy understanding its correlation and curious connection to lands far from each-other’s conscious reach. Finding comfort in our shared stories. Stories and stardust, its what we’re all god damn made of.
But why stray so far? Why embrace and consume so much culture, but only taste the scent of where my parentage was birthed? The foundation of my ambiguous DNA.
My loyalty lays not within my given family, but with the one I found; my alliance is with the lushness of the world; and my pride now lays deep in my blood. I’m finding it’s wild flames again, as the dragon of my heritage is awakens. Unslayable, waiting to be claimed.
So far back in to where I see in my dreams; the myth and narrative that the ancestors hum in to my ear, trickling down my fingers, tickling and intoxicating my tongue.

“LISTEN” they say, “LOOK” they demand.

I am neither here, nor there. Too far ahead and too far back; blessed now with tangible anchors, to the world I adore. My rebellion suddenly with a cause. My feet suddenly more grounded than ever. How terrifying.

We are all indigenous to somewhere, they whisper to me. But where? and why doesn’t it seem matter like it should on the surface to most people I meet – could they truly believe themselves to be a cause so lost that it isn’t worth an excavation? Children born of nothing, and tethered to nowhere.

Don’t you feel the pang from those and that of which has been left behind, the ache of hunger in you craving something more? That depressed cavern in your body that eats away at your voice and leaves behind self loathing and oblivion. What if it wasn’t as empty as it seemed but instead filled with the emaciated peoples we only remember in dreams. Not dead, not alive, less they be fed. The longing lingers for something real, something that tells us we belong. That somewhere there is a place that longs for us. Do you feel it?

I do.

 

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