That somewhere else * 12/3/13

There is that somewhere else, within.

At times, I sense it as a beckoning.

I just simply try to listen for a location within me.   

It is much more indiscernible

than my smallness can demand it to attend

becoming evident directly to me.

I do not know how to take off

my self-sense of demand, enough for me to go to it.

I can live for the mist of it, the vacant wash of later,

my stance of asking, this my sense of insistence,

yet in my circumstance, it otherwise pays no heed.

I can treat it as an ambient noise of sorts,

like a distant plane stuck stationary

in that vacant sky above me, when actually

it is not flying anywhere but I am free to assume

it’s leaving and that it will

not be worth my further attention.

Therefore that must be yet another plane

passing again and again.

Still there is a resurgence, softer than

a slight of breeze, but firm

in which my definites survive

several rechecks with an insistence

but it is not an overwhelm or saying a command.

I feel like I am being asked to politely sip from it

but my only option is to jump off the edge 

of everything I am holding dear in protection.

There is this place within me 

that I know to be sacred and needs to be found

and I journey within all around to no avail.

A map and baggage appear as vain attempts.

I knock on all the doors of understanding

without response or relief.

I consider caves or clouds that are all with-inn. 

Somehow I see that I send statues for placement. 

How dumb is that?

I have considered a “from here to there” as my error.

I surrender but don’t know what to offer

as sincere evidence of such

or where to send to reveal.

Every void I approach fills with my story

in murmur translations.

When my cells shimmer, 

I feel a smile coming on

and my self-conscious camera crews

rush to the scene.

I am then trampled with shortcomings,

though earnest as they are.

How can so much enormity felt, be so obscured?

I am fresh eyes of sight but cannot attend.

At times, it feels like a disaster scene

of massive proportions and I, like so many others,

are desperately looking amongst the rumble

of reality for lost relatives of myself.

To know avail would help!

It is not that I am obstructed by definites

or obscured by preoccupations.

It is as if I had my twin that died at birth

but lives on within me as my spirit

that I seem to experience vaguely

yet separate from my knowing,

somehow sensing that not to be true

but it becomes my only means

of maintaining this connection

to a richer sense of self realized.

I am duped to go there inadvertently

when it is freely here within, all along

but unfulfilling is this kind of recount.

Are we all orphans in this way?

What heritage is this to be half full?

I sense my serenity in this

to be as an endless ribbon

and not a succession of bows

hidden here and there.

I within, want to quantum my life

and therefore,

no more somewhere else to go . . .