Where do I begin?
Looking at a million shattered pieces. Trying to detect an imagine in a kaleidoscope.
I don’t care much about being profound. Or even narrative. But being honest, is difficult, and I’m still trying to find my voice and learn my language. My whole body, my being is trying to speak, not just my thoughts becoming verbalized. This is how I practice, so forgive me if it all isn’t fully realized. It is one piece of the puzzle of self that I am assembling.
You don’t have to speak any one way. Speech and being are fluid.
Even communication through grammar and punctuation invites creativity.
Often we exhibit hatred and distaste for that which we do not understand. We oppose ourselves to it because we can’t make sense of it. A reflection of our own limitations, mores than the limitations of others. It’s a disability, a lack of proficiency, a narrow mindedness. Do you have space to offer? Can you expand to encompass new information, to receive new messages from a horizon beyond your own? Recognize familiarity, landmarks in the patterns of your own thoughts. Mile markers in your mind.
“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.” (Nelson Mandela)
There’s a quote I feel from a documentary years ago, I can’t remember now but I know it’s what I’m looking for. It’s something similar to Mandela’s but from a different angle. Anyway.
My writing is a net, used to catch my thoughts as they fly by. Sometimes I catch bugs and sometimes I catch butterflies. It’s all part of the fun of being in the wild. I am the bugs and the butterflies and the net. And by being everything I am also no one thing. Nothing. Pretty cool.
My mind is like an echo chamber, a rolling cage, and I’ve got all these unprocessed experiences tumbling around in there waiting to culminate into a materialized pick. Sometimes I pick a winner, sometimes it’s a dud. What can you do? Just keep playing, or quit. Or change the game.
Shaking like a leaf, did you feel the breeze? Sleeping in a humid room. That cold was coming from you.
You are like a closet, with no space to open up in. I am a pile of clothes on the floor.
I’ve got an amazing and abundant life. Lots of space, too.
Your stories replay in my mind,
and they make a lot of sense. You start to become more whole to me.
A new dimension to you takes shape.
And you want me to see it but you don’t think that I can. It’s funny. What you hide you actually reveal.
Who hurt you? What are you afraid of? Who do you love? It doesn’t really concern me any, but let me know if you want to talk.