Black Knight, White Knight

Where is the voice of wisdom when it comes to my own path?
Why can't I help him.I feel him so strong most of the time, so angry, so tortured, so incapable if being the kind of friend, lover, and sounding board, he used to be with me. I was told that I never see two sides to anything, that I jump to conclusions and "only see my side of the page". I don't stop and think.

I am tyring so hard to hold on and remember in my heart of hearts who I am, and not to loose myself in the coldness that comes from the one I always thought I could count on.
Sometimes I feel myself start to slip, but I pull myself up by my boot straps and trudge on through another altercation.

I can feel him wanting to break me, I feel it strong, clawing at me when I fight against the persist ant attempt to swallow me up,he becomes angrier.
I feel this strong and furious, but I am guided by the lady of the lake and all of the princess's of Avalon.

I cling onto the knowledge that I am strong and even at times wise beyond my years.
Because of my ability to be empathic, I feel the fire that is burning from his eyes when
he looks at me and again tries to engulf my soul into his vial, angry pit. To do battle with the inner demon in him, is sometimes a long and painful experience, sometimes lasting even after all of the words of damnation and regret are said. Leaving me drained and speechless.

How do I speak words to a wall and be heard, I stop, and give him, what he thinks is the victory, the battle won, I have conceded. I have in his words "finally shut up"!
But you see, he has not really won the battle, but instead, he has slowly darkened and torn apart his only lifeline,and has more of a reason to hang onto the vileness that lies within him.

Not always was he this blackened soul, like a warlock. But even a warlock has his pride and boundaries , with these he knows he has steady ground.
But instead the black knight slowly sinks deeper into his own angry inner spirit.
At times I want to run. Find a higher ground or a darker cave, to hide from his continuous wrath.
I long to find and break out that shinning white knight that I used to feel.

When he spoke to me I felt uplifted and free, when he touched me I felt safe and secure.
He remembered and trusted in me. The real me, that could only be with him. I felt safe to be able to do so.
I miss him, I long for him, he who told me he loved me and I knew and trusted in that, it showed in his actions.I knew and felt that I was his muse, his inspiration to get through the day.

I try to find that white knight I dreamed about as a girl. As a woman, I thought I had found, after so many previous battles with the indignities that past partners had brought to my table,
my banquet table of life.

My banquet has become sparse and lean, there sits a vase of wilted roses where there used to be
a bouquet of crisp, scented roses.

Time has allowed my white knight to turn into the black knight, battling against me, instead pf waiting on the right side of me to make sure that I was not injured by the other forces of the black knighthood.
My beautiful white knight is gone and in his stead he leaves a wild animal, with whom I am not sure I can continue to stand my ground.

I live with the knowledge that weather I win or loose the battle, I fought with self pride and wisdom.

I feel as if I am grieving death, two actually, one for the man who I looked in his eyes, without a need for words, I knew he loved me, just the way I am. And for the impending death of the flame inside myself, praying to the gods or goddess that rule the earth, moon, sun, and stars, that I might be granted one more day before I realize that I must let go, for my own sanitys sake.

I know that I am worthy of being loved and cherished, or at least revered as a good woman.
He is able to make me wonder and doubt myself for a short time, each time finding it harder and harder to crawl on my hands and knees out of the damp, cold, lonely existence he knocks me into with his words of cruelty, followed by a cold toned, under lying anger and the empty words, "I love you" .... "But..."

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your hearts longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking a fool for love, for your dream,
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me want planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by lifes betrayals or have become shriveled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fix it.
I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it's not everyday, and if you can
live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand of the edge of a lake and shout to the silver
of the full moon, "YES"!

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised
to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own.

If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips
of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember
the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself;
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul, if you can be faithless and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.


(Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Indian Elder)

Am I blogging correctly???

I better than anyone knows that I have along way to go when it comes to knowing weather or not I am blogging correctly. Or if I am blogging about what I should be blogging about.

This is a whole new experience for me, I have always loved to write. I would write things like journal letters or my own personal thoughts, or If I got angry about something or at someone I would write the ever popular letter filled with opinions and abusive verbal that I would never send to the one it was intended for.

But now it's time for me to learn how to become a good writer.
I envy those who can put their thoughts and words on paper or keyboard ,as the case may be and have it read with so much ease and understanding.

My brother is that way, and I am hoping that we both share that common gene. Our mother did write, she wrote a couple poems that I have, but other than that I don't know. We have different fathers so the male gene has nothing to do with this.

I have always tried to speak properly and to use my vocabulary in the right way. Probably alittle bit to conscious about it since I have a bad habit of correcting others English.
Actually we don't speak English we speak American. We used to speak American English but that has been a thing of the past for sometime. With all of the inapropriate slang from our younger generations, or English language has seen better days.

Now the word bad means good and sick means great or neat. I always thought if you told someone they were sick it meant they were ill or crazy. It's all very confussing.

In order to be able to write a book and have it be of any interest to alot of people you would need to do alot of research on the language itself. I relize you have to do alot of research on any subject you write about, but the change in our everyday verbal from one group of society to another makes it harder to write a piece everyone would enjoy.

Blogging can be really fun for me if I don't have to worry about what and how I write, maybe I am worried about it for nothing . Maybe I am a better writter than I think I am.

Maybe....