4 a.m. Alone in the gym… awake, yet hungry for rest.
4 a.m. Hungrier for results… the purple dead fingers of motivation, pull on my heart.
4 a.m. Motivation? A false illusion that never lived. Ghosts floating like cloudy wet glue in my mind.
4 a.m. Time… to… work!
-Coach Z
I am a shapeshifter, a chameleon. A talent perhaps leaned as a small child with a wish to survive. Drinking the energy and intent of another person however is a dangerous game. Assimilation into a culture requires pouring out some of yourself from the vessel of your soul and brining in the hot black sludge of someone else. The clay structure that houses the soul is quite fragile. Soon the skin under the eyes blacken. Stress lines crawl across the face like rivers carving through the skin. A sinking feeling overtakes. Pressure is all around in the darkness. The light of true self is drown in the thick viscous elixer. Taking on more and more. The cup houses less and less of my soul.
Until one day a desion must be made. To beg forgiveness for lying to myself and pour out the cup, so that I may return to me. To breath again through unencumbered lungs. My heart will pump clean blood and not the adulterated slime that once course my veins killing me in every moment.
Eyes widen as I finally allow my soul to exhale my true self… I am learning to accept my shape, my formatting, my design. Perhaps one day I can accept sharing light and positive energy and more shapeshifters will surrender to themselves.
Weary dying hearts, held by shoulders prison. Muscles tighten all around. Breath is sharp and shallow. In incarcerated darkness the soul atrophies. To converse and to point the shoulders away, throwing narcissistic sounds into a room, without showing the listener a heart. A dictator’s rant into a faceless crowd. Ears fall, shoulders rise, neck pinches down and the heart seals in a cold chamber. Words, words and words. To what end. What is the intent for those whose hear? Are they even listening anymore? Stories of others become trapped in hearts drowned under the crushing weight of the untiring wind of… self. A storm that fortified the prison of the entombed heart.
One day… perhaps. Deep soothing breath will find the nose and lock the mouth shut. Then slowly the shoulders may roll back. The torso could soften and pivot. The chamber of the heart would face another pushing forward aligning with another. Chains of the neck would free the chin and it would finally have space to humbly rise revealing an empty throat. Ears would swell large like storm clouds filling the sky. The mouth shrinks, like dirty bathwater rushing down the drain of a bathtub.
In such a moment, another heart has a chance to escape the darknes.
Written by Zachary W. Gilbert 2023
The moment chews on the wires of my mind like an angry rat. It crawls in spaces between flesh and bone. It alters my thoughts, shifts my mood and influences my actions. When suddenly I realize, the dark event lives in me because my breath has stopped. Drawing a long steady breath in through my nose, I pull my shoulders away from my ears. I uncrush the back of my neck like a flattened pop can stretching into its original form. Muscles release toxins, it is carried out in dark blue blood. It is thrown free from my body in the invisible cloud of exhale. My chest cavity pumps out darkness, smooth and steady. The rat dissolves, acknowledged, accepted. Inhale, exhale. Ocean waves massaging the rough sandy shore of my memory. Thoughts roll and fade in and out of my attention. The moment is lost, and my muscles dissolve into a mist that holds no record.
Trees reached their leafy fingers up through the hot summer air. Cold mist hung above, swirling in the playful clouds. They looked like giant ghosts dancing in the endless sky. A light wind began to caress my face with its cool fingers. The thunder rumbling in the distance persuaded me to squeeze my wife’s hand, “I think your right, we should bring our rain jackets to the fireworks show.”
• • •
Copyright © 2019 Zachary W. Gilbert
Zachary W Gilbert, Author 