2.10.14 – A descent, a submission , a confession

by deanmelbourne


Creeping more than silently downward. Awkward concave ground beneath our feet. Dry and crumbling a groove between our strides. Wide eyes met glistening eyes as rabbits froze then scattered over head. Down here beneath the roots the silence of ages lay like a cloak upon us.

Through layers of rock we ventured down, down towards the sound of running water. The girl skipping ahead disturbed a giant bird, a slumbering bird that laboured as though it had forgotten it was even capable on seized and heavy wings, we remembered in the chink of light created that there was blue sky above.

In the shaded silence that followed I thought back to the entrance and remembered how I had thought of Dante as we pushed and clambered past the natural curtain of hiding green. But no hell was here on our descent only a reach across centuries.

We laughed in the icy water and it seemed to be filled a joy that connected our hearts to the earth and to all that had gone before.


tired of looking for answers. I find myself hanging on every word. So desperate for consolation that I beg a stranger to share their wisdom. So uncertain am I of my own convictions that I will leap on your words and follow you like a disciple.

As I heard the song play and the lyrics seemed to speak for me in a way that I have not managed despite effort. A I envisaged a beautifully tragic scene of a man, a 38 year old man weeping at the feet of two young beautiful singers and begging them to save him. ” tell me how to live, what choices to make.” ” tell me how wrong I am and show me how to be saved” So weak of conviction and so full of doubt that he will listen for answers. I saw him tired and worn out beyond his years lying at the feet of these beautiful singing idols. . Offering devotion and adoration in exchange for the relief of complete submission.


I saw a back and white photograph of a woman perched on a chair in a pretty dress today. I couldn’t help feeling a longing and a sadness. I realised that she looked more like me than I do. That her physical form represented the way that I feel inside for more accurately than my physicallity does. I was sad because It dawned on me that I will never be her.

I suppose her femininity was overstated in a way. That was her “thing” I guess. Is it coquettishness? Stereotypically girly. The pose, the shoes, the soft lines of her legs. Her hands. Im not sure how I am supposed to feel about that sort of overt femininity. I get the impression that it is frowned upon by some women. I suppose I am programmed to find it attractive. I am pretty powerless around it. But more than that I feel like it is a something unavailable to me something that some part of me needs to find a voice for.

A beautifully intoxicating mix of infatuation and longing, adoration and loss is the result. The perfect melodrama.