_The Precision of Silence

With a gasp, we wait… still enough in the space to listen to the precision of silence. The earth is moving deep below where we stand because – far beneath the surface – a fault line exists. This is where two edges separate plates that are rubbing together and, although we cannot see this friction, the proof of its effect tells us it is real. It is its very own weapon of mass destruction that negotiates pressure though never to win. The upshot and the epicenter are connected by their origin and exist forever along this fault.

As I stand there, I cannot escape it. I did not create it. It is not my fault, but it has everything to do with me.

With a gasp, they wait… anxious enough in the space to forestall the imperfection of my passive-aggression. The rancor is stirring because, deep below the surface, a fault line exists. This intangible rift separates the two halves of me that are rubbing together and, although I cannot see this friction, the proof of its effect tells me it is real. I am my very own weapon of mass destruction, negotiating pressure though never to win. The light and the dark are linked by their axis that resides unbending in me.

As I stand here, I cannot escape it. I did not create it. It is not my fault, but it has everything to do with me.

I realise I haven’t smiled in a while. I realise I have had conversations I haven’t remembered for a while. I realise I have been scared, lonely and dark. I realise I stopped living when I started hiding. I realise I never knew how to fill the hole I was trying to fill. I realise that although I thought I was fearless, I was the most scared I have ever been.

I see.

I see that I am stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. I see that I have more guts than I ever believed I had. I see that I feel here, I feel alive and I feel awake. I see that I am beautiful and I can be happy. I see that within me and the beautiful precision of silence, I’ve found a chest full of treasures.

I see.

I see that I am no longer scared and I will not escape it. Because I know that I did not create it and it is not my fault.

This has everything to do with me.

© Dylan Balkind

_The making of a memory

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I woke up. I saw that the shrapnel of nonchalance had torn at my surface. Devastation hung in the air like second-hand smoke and the only thing I recognised was the numb.

Slowly, as if pieces of glass floated in on the air, I looked closely and could make out the unwritten labels. There was arrogance and on its other side self condemnation. There was stubbornness and on its other side co-dependence. There was ambition fronting procrastination, control freak sharing abode with the addictive personality, and self-opinionated sharing shard with self-condemnation.

Such complexity. Such fragility. Such a ticking time bomb.

Confusion hung in the air like second-hand smoke and the only thing I recognised was the numb. This numb that had become a way to substantiate the shadows, the sadness and the sorrys.

The sorrys…

People will have you believe that’s not really a word and we are not really here.
People will have you believe this is not really happening and we are not really here.
People will have you believe it’s not really the end of the world because we are not really here.

But I am here. And I am going to be okay. I have good days and bad days, but – either way – I know that those are just moments… Because before and after all that, I know this to be true:

There is something magical about a drowning soul. It learns to fly where it used to sit. It learns to embrace the time it used to waste. It learns to shake off all the shit that held it back and it re-learns how to step back into the light.

Sure, the numb isn’t fun, but it’s bracing when you can see it for what it is. And when you do, you will do one of two things: Enjoy being numb and talk about it to anyone who will listen, or do a one-eighty that sees you go anywhere but stay where you are.

Such complexity. Such beauty. And no longer necessarily a ticking time bomb.

There are 84 000 pathways to revealing your golden mind and therein end your suffering. That doesn’t mean you have to know all of them, but you could make a start with just one.

The making of a memory is this.

This here.

This now.

I am here. And I am going to be okay.

© Dylan Balkind

_The Guardian of your Greatness

I have made excuses and blamed the way I am programmed to function… but for every excuse, for every symptom and for every default setting – there is a reason. I have been vehement about wanting to change and to submit to the grace of guidance… and for every moment of willing to grow, to listen and to be silent – there is a reason.

Protect your passion.
Defend your deity.
This is the season to be the guardian of your greatness.

For every misery, melancholic-drowning and for every first, second or third position – there is a reason. For every binding, destructive ghoul versus every ounce of strength, compassion and kindness – there is a reason. For every destructive, decadent decision that may be balanced by every bracing moment of brevity – there is a reason.

Honour your heart.
Salute your sanctity.
This is the season to be the guardian of your greatness.

For every ballistic, sadistic battle and every hasty, hurried misjudgment – there is a reason. For every tormented, tortured and terrified soul, and every David and every Goliath – there is a reason. For every unfair, unforgiving-ugliness and every tear – both in sadness and in joy – there is a reason.

Stand up for yourself.
Have heart for your humility.
This is the season to be the guardian of your greatness.

For every tear,
and for all the silence…
This is the season to be the guardian of your greatness.

© Dylan Balkind

_DangerousNeighbourhood

This path is like a floor of translucent scales. Each one overlaps the one before it and I can see through to the underneath and what lay there before. It is remnant but no longer real. It cannot survive me because of this list. 

It lived for its successes of yesterday and its defiant goals for tomorrow… It hid behind its inner child because doing that allowed it to be a victim. It learned when to put on the right mask for the right audience and it hung out in the space between its temples – often the most dangerous neighborhood of them all. It never learned to deal with life on life’s terms, so it found solace in something cunning, baffling and powerful. Then… because it had such a low self esteem, it would have to overcompensate to prove that it was the first, the most, the best. And still, disappointments happened and it faced the devastation of rejection and wallowed some more in its own stinking-thinking. 

This path is like a floor of mirrored scales. Each one overlaps the one before it and I can see through to the underneath of what lay there before. It is remnant but no longer real. It could not survive me because of this list. 

It never learned to listen to today, and just for today. It never acknowledged that we are not saints so it never really came to terms with embracing a rigorous honesty with itself. It never tried to find serenity because it never understood that it is infinitely more than anyone might think. It refused to believe that it was a work in progress because it always had to be the first, the most, the best. And through all its strife and perpetual remodeling, it never grasped the reality that the idea is, simply, to get happy. 

So there it lies underneath this path that is like a floor of reflective scales. I can see it for what it was before. It is remnant but no longer real. 

It will not survive me because of this list.

 © Dylan Balkind

_SilentWhite

The whiteness of silence sinks into this space,
as the droned look of numbness hangs about on my face.
I don’t remember losing this race that I thought that I had won,
or when the exact moment was that it all went so wrong.

I crawl into that cocoon that still hovers like silk around me,
delicate and tender and with a love that astounds me.
Unconditional understanding that warms me from the rain,
and I slowly take stock of how I can begin to remove this stain.

I never asked to walk along this path with tormenting demons for me,
it’s like the stale air that I try to breathe was born by an evil dead sea.
But turn your back on me for now because you think it’s better this way,
and I will stay cocooned in this silk as is fight to defer decay.

Spring will bloom new colours that will clear that silent white,
as I gather my rainbow-magic in my battle to win this fight.
There is no first-place needed or a winner to decide,
this ones just about getting me ready for my vacillating ride.

© Dylan Balkind

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