Detectives

We search, picking through the clues left behind- piles of letters in the mailbox and a fuzzy videotape that leaves more questions than answers. 
They have combed their mind for answers- praying, hoping for a final answer to the questions that keep them awake night after night.  It has been years now- years, and the nights when they should be sleeping drag out forever as they adjust themselves over and over on their pillows and twist their sheets and get up for another glass of water or a trip to the bathroom.  The nights last forever and the mind races, jumping, searching the corners for clues- something, maybe that one thing they forgot to tell the police.  One tiny little detail that will solve it all. 
Just what happened to them?  They disappeared like shadows. 
We saw them leave in the middle of the night and then their car turned up a few days later in a Wal-Mart parking lot.  Where did they go? 
The night is long and tedious as the questions rise up, over and over. There is no resolution.  The wonderful resolution that might be- the death to the constant struggle against wonder.  If only the night would end and the day would come and with it, god willing, an answer. 
We sit now, around a circular table, we draw out what we know, what we don’t.  We search and the more we talk, the less the lines connect.  A disjointed mandala appears before us on the tiled table and we tend to grasp at the edges, trying to bring it all around. 
Just where did they go in the middle of the night? 
My heart starts to beat, not pounding really, but with a slightly sick feeling as it interacts with my chest.  This body wants answers, how I want to be that lady who sees the rise of the sun at dawn, light bringing with it the death I seek- those eternal questions that the religions of the world attempt to answer. 
All the self help gurus and the multi-billion dollar industry cluttered with sticky-sweet titles like “Being Happy in the Digital Age.’  They want it, we want it- an end to the struggle. 
And then I look at my detective. A sly smile on his face.  How he skips, delights in the unknown. I follow him down the twisting path searching for clues. He walks slow, taking his time, enjoying the night.  The day might never come and he would still walk, soaking in the damp air, tasting it on his tongue, listening to the sounds of a sleeping world. 
My beautiful detective.  He looks into a hole and sees the endless possibilities, seeing not darkness, but a galaxy of stars.  Each one shines from another world, another story ringing behind it. 
We walk in the night, picking up clues and storing them in our pockets for safekeeping. And we walk, taking the turns in the path with as much delight as the little things we find under the misplaced stones in a driveway covered with tiny pebbles. 

The Secrets are Real

Secrets are real. Tender as the soft pink skin of rose petals, they shrink from the sun, unable to laugh or scream in a way audible to our ears. The secrets come in changing forms and shapes, petals layered upon themselves, forming full cups of fragrance. The smell, lingering in the twilight stops my heart, seconds pass while I journey into stems and tubes, petals lick me into submission and I glimpse the vast undulating fields of movement. I take notice. What have you to tell me? Linguistics dull this sacred knowledge. Even the truth can be obvious and not seen. You need eyes, real eyes. You need ears and the ability to truly hear, a skill I do not yet posses.
The heart, the soft red organ covered in scars, must be open, even a small crack will do, just enough for the songs to enter. The recognizable yet infinitely unfamiliar beat. Beautiful, bringing tears to my eyes, yet causing my heart to pump strangely, the new sensations sending mixed messages to my frightened brain and sickened body…yet, something in me sings, unable to look away. Growing louder with time, the gates slowly open a little more…then, ever so slightly, a little more.
With the passing of time, with the passion tended knowledge and budding transformation the gates can be pried further by the tiny scarred hands of inner struggle. Did you know there where thousands hiding in the frozen folds, in the vast wastelands of negative emotions, ready, dying even for a reason to exist once again. Tired of masturbating, bored of fear and petty emotions. Bloodied fingernails scratch at every surface, the gold tinged bars and iron locks have had many years to rust.
Has the message seeped in? The clues are all around, yet you must do the deciphering. The detective is hidden among your many egos, your many centers of vision, each one of the thousands thinking itself unique and alone. Grab the cloak and the pipe, take a walk in the cloudy night. Smokes wafts among your legion of demons and colliding impulses. Yes, it is you who must dig for the treasure.
Maps lay at your feet, soiled and muddy from neglect. Did you know they littered your yard? The dog has chewed the corners, children have colored upon them, adding flowers and rainbows on the thick parchment and gold filigree. Can you feel their wisdom? The symbols are plainly written, bold strokes written with a sure hand and flaming presence. Fire leaps from the characters, can you hear them talking? Are they speaking to YOU? The Real. The eternal unnamable.
They come with silence, they come with fragrance and power. Each one carries the cries and knowledge.