Rumi, Jake Sully, And A Starry, Starry Night.

“Learn well, Jakesully, and we will see if your insanity can be cured.” ~ Moat to Jake upon introduction to Omaticaya clan, Avatar

I know why Van Gogh lost part of his ear.

A quick glimpse through Tormented Genius, a small yet deeply impressionable volume, plainly outlines Vincent’s life. Honestly, you will empathize. I promise. It is simple to understand the suffering of another human soul.

When you are not meant to exist within ordinary spaces in society, regardless of the day, the era, even the century, yet attempt to squeeze yourself into that puzzle when you are not even a piece, you are not going to fit. It will be uncomfortable, quite painful.

A strange phenomenon occurs when you attempt to defy your ultimate purpose: Society does not accept you.

I know you have been there. Arms wide-open, heart full and giving. Ready, willing and accepting of all things. I can bet, sitting there reading right now, free-flowing and innocent, yet far from naive, you are misunderstood.

Vincent tried to fit. Thankfully, Van Gogh burns eternal within his work, gleaming like the fire within his eyes. Vincent adored people, he wanted to create, and always be creating and manifesting. He wanted to be a part of what was going on, to join in. Unbeknownst to him, society was not his tribe.

The irony is, Vincent was born into a world blinded by his light, yet in desperate need of his inspiration. Van Gogh felt most at peace in a sanitarium. People drove him there. I like to believe that Vincent became sane again, after going insane attempting to fit into places he did not belong.

I can see him now, watching crows in the wheat fields out of barred windows. I surely know he found bliss again. In solitude. Thank goodness.

This is why I write. It provides me with an avenue to speak without ever uttering a word. I write on scraps of paper, publish articles I hope, somewhat, are understood, but that is okay if they are not. Writing is for me.

If you grasp anything coherent from the thoughts that transpire inside my ever-ignited skull, well, you just might be my tribe.

If dull conversation tires you because no one around you is saying anything that excites the very core of your being, know that I also feel this way. It is okay, it means you are paying attention.

There is much to offer the world, yet it seems as if most people are asleep. This causes me to become quiet. Apathy and ignorance force me into solitude.

Nature does not tell me how to write, speak or spell. Trees do not scoff and decide if I am fat, skinny, pretty or ugly. The grass does not yell obscenities at me while I walk beside it down the street. The dirt does not shove me in boxes labeled according to my ethnicity, financial class, race, spiritual beliefs, and sexual gender.

My tribe is scattered across the globe. At least I know it exists. However, we are facing strange times. This is nothing new. I am simply reiterating, compounding upon and carrying forward, what I have learned from those no longer with us.

I hope that after I return to dust, my words live beyond me, so others know that they are not alone in this wondrously mad and deranged place, and to recognize that one must be insane to fully exist in any society, with its rules, regulations, ordinances, governance, policies, and delusions.

I know you want to rest upon the arduous path, if only for a little while. Just a quick nap underneath the pine trees, bed down like a doe, perhaps. To keep going, regardless… now, that is true power. Now, that is living.

Trudging uphill, sun searing delicate skin, salt of sweat stinging sight, the air thick with purity, your polluted lungs heave and struggle for oxygen, knees buckle under the weight on your back and above you, vultures circle, awaiting your own demise.

Ah, do not fall prey to trivialities. Tilt your chin upward and bellow like the wild sacred spirit you were born to be. Swear to the barren landscape that no matter what humankind attempts to do to you, that today is not your day to die.

Rinse and Repeat:

In order to progress, I must first be insane.

Like Jake Sully up there.

One of the greatest love stories ever told is that of Shams and Rumi. When they met, alchemy. Rumi, once a teacher, now a student, and Shams, once a student, now a teacher, formed a union that no one understood. Everyone was too busy being insane looking outward at two men looking inward, gloriously ill with sanity.

There are lessons hidden within the tears Rumi shed after Shams disappeared. This obliterated Rumi. Crushed, he did not yet understand the purpose for the depths of his own heartbreak and confusion. Shams left Rumi’s side without uttering a reason. He did not leave out of spite or hatred, quite the opposite.

Shams left because Rumi was meant to bleed and then burst like Phoenix rising.

Then Rumi taught the world of love.

Thinking of those no longer around, how I wish to speak with them now, standing on my balcony, the sun shining magnificently, so utterly lovely for winter. The birds share their songs, selflessly. The trees readying themselves with fresh buds and herbs starting to grow.

I am thankful right now, here in the sunshine. This immense ball of energy, sustaining life, thankful for my sight, my heart, my mind, and although it is often an isolated path, for my soul that is alive, awake and oh-so-utterly free.

What can we teach one another? Show me what I do not see.

Enlighten me.


Susan Marie
Susan Marie is a writer, spoken word poet, and author. Her writing has been translated to Hindi, Croatian, Spanish and Dari. You could contact Susan via her website.
Susan Marie

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