None of this is real
It’s all just illusion
When I wake
I will find my self
Living my unlived life
Life unlived my living
Self my find will I
Wake I when
Illusion just all its
Real is this of none
©2011 Jill Terry
Too much to stomach
Antipathy rising like bile
Laced with angst
Secreted in pain
Bitter to taste
Impossible to swallow
Choking near to death
On damage controlled I love you
The source of suffering
Seemingly never ending
While they live in harmony
Perfectly happy ever after
©2011 Jill Terry
And the door of
Opens once more
Pass by idle
Tears born of
Wanting so much
While truths falsities
Ebb and flow
Raging as the sea
To shed tears of happiness
Heart swollen with joy
From the gift of truth
Another should bestow
But what illusions spring
From a bounty of words
While reading the pages
Of one’s very soul
A beacon in the darkness
Wrapping round the heart
Come to life on a virtual page
Where freedom is found
Chained spirits do soar
And the abyss calls you
They don’t all float down here, as his mantra would have you believe. Some wrap themselves intentionally, in the dispirited darkness; fighting natures buoyancy that would raise them toward the light. He thrived on being the outcast, for he knew not how to fit; emitted false illusion, so as to sway opinion and perceptions. But had he ever met the Sage, in the abyss which I have faced, he would have fallen to his knees and in prayer he would have begged.
A night out with the girls, after a tumultuous week at the office; heads turning as they were led to their table; the waiter taking a quick inventory of Blackberry’s, designer bags and bling; calculating his tip even before introducing himself. Once seated and situated, they immediately began bitching about co-workers and letting off steam, then somewhere between appetizers and the second round of margaritas things took an awkward turn.
Shana was the drama queen of the group; pampered, posh and completely plastic. There wasn’t a single person in the office that wasn’t aware of the fact that she didn’t have to work, she chose to; for walking around money. Whenever there was reason for an occasion, she made it a point to play hostess, then downplayed the maid and gourmet chef who not only worked the soiree, but were full time employees.
They had three children, with a live-in nanny who raised them rather than tended them. Ponte Vedra Beach is where they resided; in a sprawling 8,000 square foot oceanfront mansion with their own private stretch of beach; a showplace to be certain, just as Shana was a show piece to her husband.
Sure, she thrived on the attention her looks afforded her, but in truth she loathed the amount of time she was made to spend on her appearance. Yes, “made to.”
Her husband was the most sought after plastic surgeon in northeast Florida and had invested tens of thousands of dollars of his time and talent, on breast implants, tummy tuck and lipo after their last child was born and they were certain they wanted no more.
He hired a personal trainer, which came five mornings a week, to make certain she worked out, because quite frankly, he didn’t trust her to do it on her own; and the chef was to prepare all her meals and keep track of what she ate on a daily basis, so that at the end of the week he could assess her caloric intake and adjust her workout accordingly.
He put her on a routine Botox schedule, which just so happened to coincide with her Mercedes maintenance. Three thousand mile oil change, tire rotation and Botox injections, all in the same day, which she swore was just a coincidence.
As she drained the last of her third margarita, she confessed that he’d recently hinted that for her 43rd birthday he might be giving her a facelift, then burst into tears; professing how miserable she was, and that at the end of the day, all the money, clothes, jewelry, memberships and trips abroad did nothing to ease her loneliness.
Then in the very next breath she turned to me and asked if I knew how many calories were in a margarita. I told her I didn’t know and what difference did it make. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Are you kidding me? It makes ALL the difference! I don’t have the luxury you do, of having a husband who loves me unconditionally. Richard is surrounded by young, beautiful women every single day and the last thing in the world I want, is to be forty-three and single, with three kids and forced to take care of myself!”
There comes a certain “feel,” no matter where you happen to be, whenever his thoughts turn in your direction.
It starts at the basic level of the flesh; like the cool breeze on a crisp autumn night; tantalizing and chilling all at once.
Your blood pressure rises, heart rate increases, as he sends invisible waves of desire, cascading in your direction.
At the sound of his voice, a chemical reaction triggers, and suddenly you are seized; with a mix of exhilaration and excitement like none other you have ever known.
A connection is what he seeks; the ability to reach out and snatch you from reality; pulling you into his realm of illusion; with nothing more than his thoughts and voice.
Once he connects, the feeding begins; everything you want to hear, anyone you want him to be; larger than life, too good to be true; having searched for eternity and now loving only you.
Before you can blink, you are on a downward spiral; surrendered completely while careening out of control.
He drains you empty, while filling you up; taking every scrap offered, pillaging the rest while you dream.
Making his exit as quickly as he comes; a puddle of nothing, you remain on the floor. Left alone, to sift through the pain; cloaked in his filthy blanket of noir.
Bouncing off doors
A singular voice
Bent on spiritual
Bolt the door
Shut my eyes
With old patterns faltering in the wake of time, serving him less and less; desperation creeps, then slowly sets in.
Searching for something real to cling to; in a world of illusion and cheap parlor tricks; of which he created and has always dwelled.
Better to be an imaginary somebody, than a real no body; his platform, his soapbox, his mission, his salvation.
Spewing his gospel as weightless as smoke rings, growing bored with his half dozen converts; unable to stroke his monstrous ego; he sees only one place left to go.
One soul he touched. Upon a time was touched by. He refuses to release and let go. Disguised as forgiveness, he sets about his mission; back to the only arms left, that wait wide open.
Naïve and weak, yet privy to his ways; a masochist for certain, to take him back in. She is not the reason, but merely a convenience. Providing him shelter, buying him time; bringing him closer to where he believes salvation resides.
The beautiful butterfly, with delicate wings; once so fragile, easily ravaged; consumes his thoughts, still rules his darkness; and so true to predator form, of which he will always be, he sets about stalking, making connections; broadcasting his relation, as if guaranteeing him a position. Wasting time, sniffing and searching; for the butterfly has morphed, long ago taken flight.
And so time ticks on, for this wasted life; over educated and under achieved. When he could have soared to the greatest of heights; been a true inspiration, perhaps a revered master. But the only expertise, he can lay claim in the end; is leaving a trail of pain, in the wake of his disaster.