I fell apart again.
Behind closed door,
without need to perform,
I let the body lay on the floor,
like piled rubble.
It really is from day to day,
that the life in me rolls into motion,
or sometimes not,
and then exhausted, collapses,
into an impersonal open blankness:
like an empty ruin without roof.
The psyche, or sense of personal self,
disintegrated rather than transcended,
simply does not emerge,
without will to live:
when life-force flow and desires,
do not surge, into animation, the body-mind.
Without wind, the unmoving sailboat needs no captain.
Yeah, I’m adrift.
This broken man, too broken to fix himself,
or to move towards or away happiness or pain,
floats like a bloated corpse:
harmless but hideous to others.
Am I just waiting to die?
or waiting for a life worth living?
or, perhaps just resting?
Gently, gently,
like the warmth of morning sunlight,
something in me is coalescing.
A psyche is the sum of a lifetime’s momentum,
and dashed to smithers by such early trauma,
who could keep balance on unmoving bicycle?
And yet from the jagged stump of this fallen tree,
little by little,
new stems are growing.
No,
you can not make whole the felled tree,
or recover the lost days of a ruined life,
but,
gently, gently,
new life grows towards the light of new days,
and little joys kindle enthusiasm, life-will,
and slowly, from stagnation,
a stream flows, that grows into a new person.