Misaligning yearning

I’ve spent the past few days lost in thought, searching for the right way to pen this apology. Pardon me—deeply and sincerely… This has consumed me more than the idea of writing my own eulogy. That’s how much it’s consumed me. The weight of it is unshakable, lingering like a shadow I can’t escape.

It is unjustifiable—to involve others in the fallout of my misaligned heart. More often than not, my intentions are noble. But lately, I’ve found myself estranged from them. I’ve found myself in instances where I unconsciously trust the process less and given in more—to my flesh, to my fears, to the comfort of temporary relief.

I have solicited substitutes, knowing deep down they were never the missing piece. And still, I lingered in those spaces, not out of love, but out of longing. Longing for what I truly believe is meant for me, but growing impatient with the pace at which that alignment manifests. 

I know what completes my puzzle. But because that piece hasn’t fallen into place soon enough, I grow restless—frustrated. And in that unrest, I’ve disturbed not just my own peace, but the peace of others. 

There are no intentions I can claim here—because they didn’t exist. Just quick fixes, empty placeholders, and a sobering clarity that is often delayed. I am deeply disheartened by the number of casualties because of my uncentered ways. To those I misled, even unintentionally—I see it now. And I carry the weight of that with me.

Mufunwa

I cannot be comprehended without my permission, her aura whispers—
To which my yearning soul murmurs, “...Something lost behind the ranges. Lost and waiting for you.”

As we exchange soft gazes mid-conversation,
A rally that rivals that of Simone Frediani and Daniele Pecci—
Smiles, chuckles, and everything in between.

My mind wishes to be pardoned for its presumed eagerness in each exchange;
Her empathetic nature allows it in amusement,
To which my soul once more references a relatable line from one of my favorite poems:
“I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.”

Though I may no longer hold my breath for follow-up encounters,
Still, they remain dear to me.

Oh, how feels feel…

Oh, how feels feel—
I could melt to touch.
Cold turkey for a feeling unfamiliar,
A radical switch from straight edge to fiend.
I hope you look both ways
When you cross my mind.

Oh, how feels fill the room—
I could melt to touch.
Finally acquainted…
If these walls could talk,
Familiar and intertwined—
I hope you never vacate your residence.

I offer you title deeds:
Real estate in my heart and mind.
Attached is a vocation—
Oh, to be elated by more than just the thought

Of you being mine.

The council of being.

The mind drifts—
a raft on a restless tide.
Constantly pensive, yearning wonder.
Bombard me not; I’ve grown tired
of your siege. You duel with the heart
as though it’s a traitor to the council.

The heart snaps back:
You crown yourself a tyrant of logic,
yet build your kingdom on quicksand—
why chain me for trembling at the storm?
I am no traitor. I am the anchor
you keep dragging through the shallows.

The soul, slow as sediment:
You call me obsolete
when I name the undertow—
this council of breath and bone
was never yours to throne.
What is a tide without the moon’s pull?
A king without his chorus?

Absolute power, it murmurs,
corrodes like salt—
you etch your decrees in protocol,
yet we are currents
meant to merge, not conquer.

The mind unravels:
I did not choose this helm—
this map of a deepening void.
Each choice cracks like thin ice
beneath our feet.
Forgive the fractures.
I too drown in the wake
of what I’m tasked to navigate.

Hedonism’s tide drowns me, he claims—
stranded in the spin of pleasure, pain, panic.
I seek transcendence…
I seek the marrow of rest.
I seek transcendence…
unshackle me from this wave’s crest.

The heart hums:
Then sink into me.
Beneath your riptide of thought,
I am the kelp—
not drowning, but swaying,
not fleeing, but rooting.

The soul sighs:
Root here.
Even monarchs kneel
to the earth they stand on.

The mind, softer now:
I commend your light—
heart, your compass; soul, your tide.
Let the council’s chorus
chart this abyss.
Alone, I am only
a star
begging the night
not to swallow its spark.

Three words with certainty.

 I made a promise to myself to peel the layers back... little did I know, just how daunting of a task this would be. For every lesson you do not learn, you are doomed to repeat. I find myself yet again at a crossroad, daring to take the road less traveled - the goal is more than just to break the cycle. This is a journey of addressing and redressing. Here I am, ready to be vulnerable and honest with myself. I surrender to divinity; may it cloak my unconquerable soul and guide every step I take.

Considering that I am unused to being bare, I refuse to be intimidated by this persistent thud residing from my chest, trembling hands, slight tingle in my stance and disfigured vision. Just as I could catch my elusive breath, it dawned on me. The passive nature I have cultivated and developed in an attempt to stay safe from the contrast of reality versus expectation was merely a hoax, delaying the inevitable. The intention was noble: do not be too concrete; maintain a high-level construal.

To be loved and to love: never sentiment, only truth. I finally find myself worthy; it will take much effort to separate from worldly associations connected to love. The glare in my eyes is owed to the notion of comfort in self and in the certainty of a union that says, 'I choose you,' consistently and infinitely. I love you.

Principles

I appreciate black and white with clarity... as clear as day and night, I am akin to certainty.

It's black and white, harmony, and then symphony.

Those are the keys and chords of life,

Symbiosis akin to yin and yang,

Opposites on the spectrum that are perfectly complementary.

Knowing is better than believing.

There's a way forward with certainty...

The natural progression.

Black and white, not black with white…

Grey may equate to exploitation being more probable.

The difference is crucial.

Be thorough and avoid cracks in the foundation.

Rock bottom has a basement.

I have just realized that I fell out of touch with self

Turned reclusive my coping mechanism is "stealth"

Disconnect to reconnect, a make-shift do-over

Kangaroo care, semi-prone trying to bear this level of sober

There's irony in me loving the smell of coffee

The tale of a Bald eagle

I fell in love with the storm

Bound like Icarus to fly too close to the sun

From the ash I shall rise...

should I evolve in time

Although sobering epiphanies may cripple me

It is only for a moment

Nightmares only last one night

This too shall pass

As tough as a buffalo I shall remain

Never forsaken

I live not in vain