“My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened” – Michel de Montaigne
I tell him he’s a songbird when he’s terrified, not a simple canary, no not that. Rather he’s a Hawk, a screaming raptor, that hunts symphony, that looks through the patterns of confused stanzas, and bad timing, and finds perfection. For he, this son of mine is perfection. He has flown to great heights, and yes, he has skimmed the valley floors. Tasted clay, envisioned horror. It is there we begin.
First it comes when he’s dreaming, and it takes the dream away. In its moves insidious it turns water into clay. It wraps the things up he loves to do and binds them first with string. Layer upon layer it then becomes rope and finally barb wire that stings. It tests the singing of his angels, until their sound becomes such pain. Night after night they come until, he holds his head screaming as if he’s insane. It blocks off every open space to make a puzzle of dark disdain. “For everything there is an answer”, It whispers, “it’s a fire to a flame”. “Turn the lock just one more time to drive that itch away”. He has heard there are many troubles and diagnosis of mental ache, but nothing beats the worn-out torture of neon thoughts of personal pain.
Sometimes he mourns the private artist that person who rode his silent range. A wild boy inside chasing rainbows so playful in his games. Then it came and brought its people, the nightmares of made up shame. Twisted turned, and bound his anger made his pathway narrow and strained.
I tell him he’s a songbird, in a deep, dark mine, finding the right, tracing invisible paths of oxygen until he breaks into the light of day. Then he’s a raptor, a bird who seeks prey, and he rescues that which was long ago taken away.
I know for now he looks at trouble, at daemons night and day, those thoughts of dripping blood and agony, he wishes would just go away. I wish it too as his Dad, I wish I could take them away, but damn it G_D expects him to fly and challenge what’s in his way. For there is no amount of medicine or therapy that can heal what is a shade. That, is the road of what was chosen by another lord of judgement gray.
For now, I tell him he’s a songbird, that sings a note that’s unheard in the fray, a melody that will soon turn into lightning, and strike the fright to day. When all the world has stopped to listen, his mind storms arranged and stayed. This thing that takes his pleasure will bend to his vision, and he will be okay. My songbird will be okay . – 04.02.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל