Tuesday, 15 January 2013

The hand you play.

This is a message I wrote today after reading an article on bullying. I had a friend whose ship sank.
I guess in a way this message is to them just as much as it is to anyone who may suffer at the hands of sorrow and the unkind.

Mahalo

-Tyler


The sun rose today, it found it's time and...rose.
As if the flower of it's awakening was gilded with an eagerness to prove itself against a backdrop of a sullen sleepy sky.
To show to everyone that, hey...I bring enlightenment.
Who didn't rise today...
What was there reason for not doing so...
Not everything has to be explained.
Somethings need only happen.
And yet we walk through this earth with our eyes closed.
Flexing our faces in front of a mirror, as if to prove to ourselves that we're beautiful.
But if you can't love yourself then no one will hear your heartbeat echo.

Kindness
A way of life,
With a seemingly synonymous nature to happiness,
something people pursue.
We all hope we can find it in ourselves to be kind to those around us,
that maybe this time, we'll give them a smile, a wave...
That perhaps even though they may be different, or strangers in our eyes,
that we will treat them as equals, with love and compassion,
regardless of religion or faith or fact.
The people who didn't rise...listened, there ears wide open,
as if hope's middle name was maybe and maybe they could hear you say...thank you

Everything has it's season,
there is a time to weep, a time to laugh, a time for sorrow a time for joy
there is a time for all things but everything has it's season.
We cannot help but change,
just as the leaves will change colour and come loose in the fall,
doesn't mean we can't rake them up...
Put those cards of our past in a pile,
to set and deal against that rising sun.
And the shadows they cast on the ground,
will line the shopfronts of that lane we call memory.
That cobblestone road winding down that hopefully leads to more than just heartache.

For those people that don't rise.
Perhaps just ask them to sit, graciously.
Or sit yourself, and maybe through the realisation that you do care and perhaps might stay a while,
they'll gather their strength and give you a smile.
It is important to know what to stand for, sometimes sitting is a good option.
Because I will not stand for this. I will not stand for a playwright preparing your script with pills, suppose to sink sorrow as if it were an iceberg to a hard-ship. Do they think it's cool? Because sadness burns when it hits turning your life into the paradox of theseus's ship, wandering what will be left of you if you replace every board and plank of timber with something new.
Send yourself a lifeboat,
Let it tug you away from their avenue of attack,
to awaken from this cobblestone street scape of the past to a present from now, where you may rise with the sun...


We look back down that lane called memory and we find a shopfront painted yellow,
Bright even against that dawning sun.
A memory of a time long gone, when you were in the spotlight, when you had everything,
seemingly all you needed. You kept the audience stapled to their seats, and they watched, searching for vacancies to occupy in the spaces between your heartbeats, as if silence is a room for rent and we all went, Shhhhh.
The beats themselves drowned out the applause.
You awoke, but they did not rise.
Staring at the ceiling, wishing that perhaps something could make it colourful
something could bring it back to life, and in turn lend you a helping hand, a crutch to lean on.
because shoulders to lean on are hard to come by these days;
Crawling your way through that shipwrecked haze...

A rich banker may go to work,
and lock himself in a vault just to feel that he has value.

Let your smile send a tremor, an earthquake to crumble those walls
and bring that vault to destruction, finding him amongst the rubble, unharmed...laughing.

As if you'd given him that standing ovation he soo yearned for.

Sometimes crutches aren't good enough, there are days when you have to give them wings,
so they may soar into the higher reachers of this world and detach from the shadow of expectation.
For to expect the season to end,
is to except that you've done all you can.
Live on.
People do care.
Perhaps it's now time for everyone to go around telling each person how beautiful they are,
so maybe in the subtle reflexes of the morning light you'll realise it for yourself.
you'll look at the mirror and smile
not at your own reflection...
but with it.



For this vault is merely a box, a case, you can play with,
finding combinations that work and starving that exterior until there is nothing left.
There is always something left.
But Perhaps it's time to share that combination and let the precious commodity of who you are out...
Play an open hand and paint that ceiling with the colours you discover.
Put the abnormality of rising in the past and let the petals of that...Rose, be rimmed with the potential of being a titan.
Because you're done living on the corner of heartache and memory,
with a space large enough only to rest, in the close company of a muttered "in peace".
You've gathered up the sands of time and tossed them into the wind to be taken with the seasons of un-raked leaves.
Your time is now.
There is no rehearsal, and you don't need a soundcheck to hear the beating of your own heart.

It is on the mantle piece that you'll place that vault,
above a fire fuelled by closed hands of old cards that you gave to the sun.
And amidst the crackling of a road long gone...you'll hear it.
Because happinesses middle name is kind and you've been kind of waiting.
The lease is up.
Silence can no longer occupy the hollows of a heart healed by the words "I love you",
echoing off the walls of this hall, bought by unscripted lives, because?...we do.
We all do...And you don't need an encore.
Today the sun rose, and so did you.