How do they get way up there?

I get it.  The rubber soul.  There is a slew of people who hit the bottom and just roll there.  Something about the resiliency, about the composition of a man allows him to bounce back up.  There's an inertia from gravity that literally crushes him at an atomic level, but in his smallest fiber he instantly realigns and changes direction.  He's up, again.  When before he was above you, so maybe this time he's now at eye-level.

These are the types of people who more than thrive on the gravity of situations, they need the force of a collision to climb higher.  Each arc is weaker, unless external agents intervene.  So then I guess the way into the bottom of Heaven is one strong force that cracks all those atoms to the core, and something rockets back up.  I don't know this trajectory very well, but I am enamored by this rubber bullet.  I always thought it had something to do with being hard-skinned; had to do with being unaffected or disassociated with the suffering of the world.  Escaping the rolling seems to be more about shedding some humanity- it's the hard shell that is lost, not the conversation of mind-body, but the loss of it.  The small man, secretly unhinging the locked hatch in the basement.

There are no rubber souls parading through the gates of Saint Peter with trumpets blaring from Earth's highest mountaintops.  Rather, it's the thief in the night, the sneak who creeps through the darkness and finds his way where the world isn't looking.  He's an opportunist, he's on a mission- with a bullet-like intensity his trajectory is to win or lose at all cost.  I love his trajectory; I love his pedigree. I love that he will be caught by the gate keeper who explains the secrets of inertia, how his subterfuge changed the game. The keeper shines that small rubber soul and has him enter the gates a champion, no longer a sneak.

Permission to Go Ashore

I am a ship at port.
Tossing my line to moor- no one is there to catch it.
I am a ship in tatters, with well-weathered crew.
Battle-tested design, reinforced hull.
Steady ballast, ever buoyant.
Each turn the deep keel greets the sky
And has never met her in capsize.

Rickmann, Allan. Scuttled ship. 23 December 2004. Gambia, Banjul Harbor, Gambia.Flickr. Canon Powershot A30. 28 February 2014.

In port, harbor respite.
On starboard, gale tempest.
While far off-chart was a constant concern,
Pointed home, guided terra firma.
The Captain calmed the storm,
Squelched Poseidon's mutiny;
But who to catch the line?

Bobbing in wait.
Absent harbormaster, absent bystander.
I need no expert, I need someone to catch the line.
I need ten fingers, two hands
Two minutes of eye contact,
Ears to hear, time to invest.
Or more provision as I wait.

Friend of Sinners

The devil would have you believe that no one can understand you:
That you must go it alone for the sake of the mission,
That you can only gain acceptance through comprimise,
And the lie that somewhere on that slippery decline,
You'll find footing, reclaim yourself and learn to be.

He was despised and rejected by men;
    a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;
and as one from whom men hide their faces
    he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Surely he has borne our griefs
    and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
    smitten by God, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions;
    he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
    and with his wounds we are healed. -Isaiah 53:3-5

So what then could I possibly say about understanding?
How does he not cleave to me on this journey "alone"?
Has eternal recognition come to anything but complete submission?
And so what of the lie that I could ever find out for myself,
Who I am meant to be by my own refinements?