The Prodigal Son
Photo credits: Alena Vasileva
My tendency is to search, further away from all that I can see; beyond any horizon and dared dream.
Like the flame in wind, I spread myself out from the center that I already am. I venture in so broad a spectrum, that I extinguish myself within the same seeking. It is Love, in its volition to see me kindled, that brings back to light as a forest wildfire, with its breath that comes down from the highest mountain; moving through the snow and its surroundings.
There are no words left for me to speak out, in my desire to describe Love. That is where poetry comes in play, for in its description of all that is real, yet unseen, it is vague and infinitely true. I write, to find some deeper understanding. You read, to find yourself within the space that is made up by words.
I was never good with the spoken word. I think it is for that reason that I stretched out so much to loose myself for so many years, for I was only thirsty from Love. And yet, the term "loose myself" only means, that I was finding myself through those dark pathways of drugs and self-abuse, just to reach a space of neutral destruction. It is there, where the fields have been setup ablaze with no weed left, that the farmer comes to sow his harvest. When I had lost all that I had and thought I was, that I could give shape to a much desired creation, thanks to the Universe who supports this will that I am.
I am not GOD, but it most certain resides in me. It is thanks to Its loving force, that I am here contained in a human shell. Sometimes words come as sounds, through its mouth in waves amidst the thin air that passes in between my veins and skin. Other times, its me, with a wishful mind, that brings words out of dreams, just to build sentences written above the lines of pages, upon the illusionary surface; of idealism and desire. For that reason, I seek. I search within people that are beyond this reach; of eyes and hands, of lips and their unborn kiss.
But, what happens there is; that like the smoke of an incense stick, on its extension outward, it ends up to fade in the thin of air. Never existed. Never there. With this pattern, most times I exhaust myself. So like the prodigal son, I walk my way back home, to drink out of my fathers cup, and nibble, at the bread he had made ready for me.
Now sitting again at this table of Heaven, I am asking myself; I am humble enough to learn, and not venture out again?
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For more of my writings you can check out my instagram profile; mbrincat - or my book that is available to purchase from here:
Matthew is the author of the book Random "the choices we have forgotten about". The book has sold out all its first 300 copies, in 6 months. Coming from the tiny island of Malta, where literature is not placed at such a high regard, this was something that went beyond any expectation had. The book even touched countries like; Germany, Austria, Slovakia, Bulgaria, Italy, and Spain. Now he is working on a limited edition of the book, with a deeper look to the question most people have; "what is Random to you?"