Praying at Dead Altars, and Getting Life From it

"Dear Youth, what was your one big plan?

You made us believe we had the world in our hands

We left home with nowhere to go

Facing our fears as we brave the unknown

Dear Youth, put back those thoughts in my head

The ones where I believe that I am boundless again

I know we're at the end of the road

This is our story, this was our home"

"Dear youth (Day 52)", The Ghost inside

Whenever most catch me tying knots on ropes, they fear for my safety and mental health.

It has become so that when I have to tie a knot on a rope, I start off small, pulling strings until they're long and strong enough to hold the fall of my weight.

Every now and then, someone finds me tying a rope, and they come to check it's been tied well enough.

Those are my friends and family.

Because those who know me understand the rope I've wrapped around my neck, it's the chord I've used to speak my mind. God knows I've pulled on this string quite a lot to get those around to me to know I'm hurting.

At times, the chord is strong enough for me to voice the same as a small punk band at a big concert: loud statements out of childish mouths.

Other times, it's a frail string that is barely able to ring a hushed bell. Thankfully, I've been lucky enough to have lived a life where I ring a bell and I'm given the service of a friendship.

I set my strings up, and play my songs. I set my strings up, and speak my words.

Every now and then I'll set my strings up and use them to suspend myself in the air, as a puppet would. Although I ignore who holds the strings in times like these.

I also try to observe how others tie their knots, and set their strings and ropes.

I try to listen to the chords being played, and what is being said.

I also try to listen to what's not being said. I make attempts to hear the timbre of the bells around me, to watch the threads of those who smile and care for others.

There are times where other puppets are held by nothing more than the tension of their strings, and it's up to all of us to help each-other ease that tension lest it rips the string that holds your community together.

Because our threads are intertwined.

The guy at the coffee shop; the girl at the gas station; the mother of two; a father of neither one of the children he's chosen to raise but a father nonetheless; the kid that misplaces his strings and ultimately hangs from a rope.

The downfall falls upon us all, even when it's no one's fault.

Hell, even when we all cut his strings to see him fall, we too fall.

Our communal well being is as big in importance as our communal suffering.

Our personal well being and suffering isn't as disconnected from the community as we might like to believe at times.

At times, taking care of number one has more to do with making it our number one priority to care for one another, and strive for a communal prosperity.

Bukowski said that if you sometimes knock, and get no answer, it means "...I am busy, I am mad, I am glad/ or maybe I'm stringing up a rope; so even if the lights are on/ and you hear a sound... go away."

If you knock, and I don't answer, knock again. I might need some knocking to get myself standing again.