Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Metaphors and Moths...

I've been thinking about metaphors lately. You simply say one thing is another thing, and while this seems so direct (x=y) the comparison is quite abstract because the meaning is embedded in something left unsaid. Metaphors carry a wonderful aesthetic and stir our emotions. They arouse all our senses and add texture to our communication. See, taste, smell, hear, and touch through the metaphor. Neckties are loud and silence is sweet. It's beautiful how we come to see the world in an indirect way which somehow points us more closely to the truth.

I am a moth

Run away from me. All of you, get out of here. Space of me... filled with melodies of desires made of dances. I will fall into safety, maybe, hopefully, even without you. Where you used to be, the stable arms of warmth that gripped me and took me to a place I have never been before and I fear will never find again. Just to feel comfort. Trust. Everything will be okay next to you. And I can look at the rain as it pours.

A moth wildly batts its wings against a window pane. It’s stuck. Starring at its destination unable to reach anything. I can see what it can’t. I beg for it to look outside of itself. Save yourself!

And then stillness, and the moth settles in defeat. Sun rays pour to the window and the moth basks in light as it ends its fight.

I am a moth starring ahead only at what I wish to see- fighting for my life. I will put on the coat. No one knows. I miss you. You made my dreams feel real, and I always felt free to be kind. Sometimes I feel like I have to hide, like I can’t be the free bird I was meant to be. I want to fly in sweet rivers of gold, where the sun settles against my nose, and kisses tickle my tongue, and new feelings inspire my entire body to move closer to you. You soften my eyes and open my smiles, not birthed by my mouth, but deep in my heart chamber.

Remember when we stopped the car and ran through meadows? The weeds with prickles and spokes pinched me- this was real. There is no dream. You are the glass in front of my face. Palms up, forehead pressed against the image of you.

The moth doesn’t give up, and perhaps none of us do. And still the sun shines...
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