the dictation is super strong even though there are no words, there is no song…. the chords that are not playing overtake the audio and the audience sits applauding, oh the intensity of the spectators felt triple fold the under the pressure of the encores and the lighters waving around and putting it all under the light and all over again, these feelings, having to fight back the emotions but they are always in control so the are just let loose and maybe will present some healing, i am hopeful….. but while the smile on the face of the one tearing it all down walks around flaunts around there is more stone thrown on the ground and it is crushed by the “greater” and “better,” what will never be built …. forced to watch a structure be remade by architectural guilt, in a world that is conditioned by hurt and making sandcastles out of the driest of dirt… foundationally impossible and yet still it is tried, and it is failed.. and it is swept under the rug and declared clean and repaired, fully detailed. on the outside appearance it is fresh and giving young and determined and the crumbling remnants are left to the mouse with nothing, troubling…..how much so little it appears to one, to the other is much, too heavy, the smallest of items to some are checkmarked too large a burden to carry, on the backs and the hands and the hearts of the wounded loved, no matter how high i try to rise above, there is a constant leveling a spiritual unsettling and bringing down of elevations, and there is less of me and more of the jealousy and less understanding and more impractical demandings of my heart to understand and move on and be free, and it still looks down and sees the strings ….
im processing …. and realizing there is a pulsing in the brain that is now abscessing, and simultaneously fracturing the essence of structure, …. breaking down all the zoning and the breakage causes a puncture, the very core of stabilization… the shaking of the foundation created the shattering of the perfect reflection… only seen in the mirror of self preservation…. preserving the perverse and twisted of versions, the self visualized identity, … as the remnants lay at the floor of our souls debris… the destruction occurs naturally…. only chaos comes from the natural being while intentionally, reaching for the metaphysically, observed, and released, for the physical attendee to record visually… purposefully arising from the ashes with intent and poise, silencing the piercing shrieks that explode from internal noise….. with louder and more quiet, with peace and partaking of personal riot, the duality sits in one seat but has a co pilot… flying this aviation device in natures glorious defiance, navigationally pleading for direction or guidance …..while holding out for the results of this test, the years of experience are the only reliance….. relying on the self, based on what was once true, only leaves making the fool make a fool , the fool sets the new standard of what not to do, raises the bar of what to make sure to do, ensure the new place in the opportunists new dormitory, a broken improvisation of “new” in an old story, a horror story, where peace is misplaced and love is brutal and gory, engorged, in self servitude and division of self sustainment…. watching the self try to rebuild within itself is devastating entertainment…. without the leading of the game of blame, it seeks its own demise… falling further into the fiery path no longer disguised, and once again, out of the ashes with a smile, the soul will rise
I guess I just felt that I should have more closure today. Instead I find myself diving further into the unknowns… I go there frequently and sometimes resurface from the depths with a new understanding of the foreign entities I have encountered. I have made more friends with the oddities and theories than not, as of late. While I explore in this spiritual and transcendental in-betweens, I have learned that there is still so much more to be seen that could never be spotted by the laymen human plateau that is often referred to as the heart…
I thought that I would feel differently now. Perhaps I feel that people feel I should feel differently by now. But, I don’t. I remember about four weeks after Archaea passed that I had a day that I woke up and didn’t cry. I thought, that’s it, I’m done crying now apparently and I have this grieving thing over with….. It wasn’t much further into the day that I bawled. Same thing happened about 3 months into it. Again at 5, 7, 8, 10 months…. Then the anniversary week came fast and relentless… So naturally, at one year and three days, I assured myself that I was good, and that now I can move on, breathe… What better time for me to be done with all the pain and sorrow and crazy? A year has come and while others are only reminded because perhaps of my constant reminder that is my being, I remember everyday. We all know that.
So I sit in this struggle. The battle forging between my soul and my soul to be… Whomever it is that I am going to become next is strongly weighted with the iron boots cast on from the previous battle of who I was before. Of course I see the waging of war within myself. Of course I want peace. However, the only way to know peace is to know chaos… or so they say.. … Whoever they are anyway.
I will never know here in the space I am what the space prior was or what my future space will be. I don’t know if I will ever return to myself or evolve into a more enlightened version of myself, but I do know, that I have become more accepting of myself with the feelings I have. I am free to be stagnant, I am free to flow, and only I at the time that I am who I am, can determine what I will do, be, think, feel…..
And today, I am angry. Again or still… and that is absolutely beautiful…
At a steadfast pace in this existential race, I’m ever wandering on a path that steadily, is being erased.. I jog along trying to keep next to my mate, but that map is quickly being misplaced. It’s in the plan to exacerbate, forget to mediate and just begin to elaborate like my ears are a fresh slate.
I’m needing to medicate and replate this dish thats been served at my table. The one that has a misleading label. It comes with a menu that is written in fables. Words so smoothly ejected that they make your understanding feel disabled.
Without the able.
Locked in a stable and stuffed in a cradle to be kept at bay, while all the nay sayers neigh, and display the inability to articulate the right thing to say. It all comes out in disarray.
Today. Not today. Someday. Some way.
Weighing the past to the future while missing the present, the reality being filtered by resent. The distance growing rapidly by coupled dissent.
I indent my paragraphs to acknowledge priority of speech. I use this avenue to release.
I am incarcerated by your freedom of speech, and the twisted justice has my faith impeached. My body beached. Floundering in the chaos and fleek. Flock, forgoing the family flight. Standing still while watching lies pass me by, reeling from plight or a lack thereof. If there was pride from the guide, there would have been love.
In one week I will be trying to honor Archaea on her day of birth….
In one week I will be trying to keep it together for her brothers and sister, so they too can honor her, if they so choose….
In one week I will be desparately clinging to anything I can find holding some semblance of peace or love…
In one week I will be reliving last year (as if I don’t daily) mentally over and over again….
In one week I will no doubt be overwhelmed and dissatisfied on how I chose to honor her should have been 1 year birthday…..
In one week the day that has been trudging through my mind over and over will whirl away as fast as I can think of it…..
In one week I will be so terribly sad and trying terribly to get the “should have beens” out of my mind….
In one week I will be devastated and horrified that we will not be honoring this time together as a family….
In all the days that have been passing as this day approaches I have been learning….
In all these days leading up, I have been preparing….
In all these days coming through I have passed through with them again desperately trying to find the love and hold that….
In all these days I have battled to do so….
In all these days I am learning to honor Archaea I am also wondering what that even means….
On this day I have broke down more times than I care to admit…
On this day I have been more angry than recent…
On this day I saw how much my children love me regardless of my anger…
On this day I realized that there was more of me that could still be broken, since the day he said goodbye ….
On this day I saw that I am certain I may never heal from this beyond brokeness…
On this day I decided that this process is my way of honoring her and that is raw…
In this moment I am lost, but still looking for a compass
I have to hear what is not being said, I have to see what is not being read.
I have to let go, I have to hold on,
I have to prove to myself I’m the one who is strong.
I have to walk tall, I have to lay low,
I have to stay higher than the wings of a crow.
I yearn to hear what is not being said, I yearn to see what cannot be read
I yearn to be heard, I yearn to be held,
I yearn to be a force to which you’re compelled
To yearn my soul, to yearn my spirit,
To yearn for my presence in your every minute.
Actually what I want is self honesty, truly, I want to just believe me
Trust in myself, doubt on the shelf,
No longer believe the lies that fear tells
Trust in my dreams, doubts will diminish,
Leaping heart first into life’s race’s to finish.
I want to remember all that is real, I want to connect and understand what I feel.
I want to transcend, with my soul make amends,
And experience a love that is without any end.
“We are all a little crazy… it’s just what kind of crazy can you tolerate..”
This was a topic in a conversation I was blessed to have today…
We are all crazy. We all have our issues and baggage and common droppings of batshit that cover our crazies. I guess that is why I write. To eliminate the intensity of the ideas or the insistency of which my brain urges me to operate. Regardless of how much I write or talk or think about the overbearing thoughts in my brain, it still doesn’t relieve me of the moments when I just need to scream or cry or disappear. Those moments are as unpredictable as they are predictable. I have especially learned within the last couple of weeks just how vulnerable I am within the confines of my own cell, trying to break the bars. It feels as though I am reaching through the slats just close enough to make the key chain of freedom dangle, but not quite within full grasp. So as I watch it swaying I become hypnotized envisioning what that freedom looks like.
It looks like this….
The girl who sits behind the veil of her own shade and is welcomed at that nature and not forced to be in the light.
The girl who disappears behind the nightshade of her own shadows now steps into the light and never casts a shadow.
And still that girl will wax and wane and the world will sway with her song and maybe even attempt to hum along to her song.
Just a little bit of what freedom looks like.
“Overall that is the epitome of what it means to be me, or in my company. While I sift through the definitions of what “is” and redefine what it means to “be,” I reflect and am reminded of my vulnerability. What is the tolerance level that equates and vibrates with my personal mental tyranny? ……. “
We just go on day by day. Well, I mean, you do. You think I do. You see me in the “everday,” so I must be going on too. Moving on. Every one just moves on. So typical. I am in no way judging, it just is what it is….
But today was like it was just yesterday.
To me, it was just yesterday.
How could it not be?
Sometimes I think it gets harder. There are so many expectations of me, and now more.
I just cant even imagine…. could you expect this of yourself?
I have a plan or rather a goal, but I have to reset this goal every day because each day it amounts to a pressure that breaks me down. Again, I have to rebuild.
This just happened yesterday because I have to live it every day. Each day I wake up, and all three of my earthside children wake up, I, remember the one who never woke up…..
It must be when the pain reaches an exceedingly high level that the switch is flipped. That nano second of a moment when it no longer matters.
Or maybe vanquished. I am definitely trying to observe myself and what patterns or processing I am making or taking. One thing I am currently noticing is the level of which I should care is as indifferent as the high level of pain.
My switch has been flipped.
I now find myself in a place where I am repulsed by the thoughts that were once my longing and suffering of what I must have pushed myself into believing was love.
Twice my grieving for my daughter has been halted so abruptly to forcibly grieve another twist of fate.
I have spent many days in a state of seeing my grief sitting in a glass shadow box on display. I can see it from all angles and yet I am unable to grasp it. It cannot become my own to encase within my soul. It is the humanity within me and it sits apart from me, and this, is what causes my roboticism. As long as that organ of existential grief is out of its designed receptacle, I suffer from the flipped switch syndrome.
I, am no longer who I was, and yet also coming back to whomever it was I was intended to be and perhaps had a bit of within me so many years ago.
It has been less than a year. Almost a year. And it was still just yesterday.
I can still feel every ounce of fear, sadness, pain, anger, loss…… everyday. In that less than a year, almost a year, I have also endured a second loss, which is so much like a death, actually twice. And now, having observed my stance on this very shaky and unstable foundation called life, it is bewildering that I am still standing.
Now that I have become the other side of human, I realise that my humanity, the one in a transparent objectification of process, is not grounded to anything. I think that once I can make a human synapse fire in this metal realm I’m in, I can reach to the case and that instant connection will shatter the box and set free, me. My ability to grieve peacefully will return and I will become whole once again, and disconnected from that switch forever more.
The disappointment that continues to ensue is beginning to be irreparable. The damage is settling in and pulling up a chair, asking what’s for dinner, making a bed. It knows that it is on a hot trail to its own success. Of course, in the process, completely obliterating any semblance in that aspect, of that particular sanity . The crushing weight of what was supposed to be and what should have been has begun to really stomp all over my dreams. It has found a path through what was supposed to be happiness and has temporarily hijacked the entrance and exit. Blocking hope.
This barricade started out with just little wash outs in the road. Tiny little streams of disarray just trickling over the way, causing brief pauses and little moments of panic. The attempt to keep the direction open and secure was loosely bound up by grains of sand, lightly kicked off the side to plug up that little stream just enough so that it didn’t appear to cross back into our mission. So of course, the mission continued. We pass on by that little trickle of doubt and push on through.
With a long enough journey, especially one that makes you climb and climb, it will inevitably be filled with these little streams along the way. It is expected, it is exciting to overcome those little obstacles, strengthening the climber, building a bit firmer center of existence.
After time though, getting further along, kicking pebbles and sand to fill the gaps…just hop over it. There isnt enough time in the journey to completely build all the boundaries needed to walk this way. It just becomes an unwanted, yet expected, so familiar…. and a nuisance to progress, forward progress. Jumping over these ditches on the rise to the top has now become the trail guide’s recommendation for recovery and quickest route to comfortability.
Pressure begins its due process. Pushing through all the little cracks of the poorly built barriers, the trickling evidence of entropy plots its course. The shift in energy is in the air, it is felt by the rumble of the core. The path is no longer a terrain of sure footing and sacredness. The wash out rolls effortlessly over and through the depths of the ditches, drowning all attempts and efforts of past crusades.
The landscaping of life is now flooded by the inability to work efficiently and in unison with the instructions. An entirety of land washed away, where the roots and the water are one, and there is no ground to ground to. The failing, the endless flailing, the fragments and fear, whirl around with the tide that is stirred by the forgetting to dam the doubts. Damn the doubts.
Lifelessly floating with the waves of woe.
In the distance, on the horizon of hope where one day I will be able to walk a path again. Hike to the harmonious collision of dreams and reality. Hike to the hellacious chasms of reality and dreams. Along the way while smelling the fresh new blossoms of chance not forgetting to bring the gear needed to build the dam before the journey.