Better yet?

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…

write or wrong

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 irate.

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 relent.

I indent my paragraphs to acknowledge priority of speech. I use this avenue to release.

Please.

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.

one week, again

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

Want,  need, and beyond.  

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.

the Tolerance of Crazy

“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…

It’s true.

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.

Sometimes.

“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? ……. “

still screaming, silently

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…..

That Switch

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.

Done.

Gone.

Vanished.

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.

Before.

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.

Tiny Streams

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.

Floating.

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.

Compartments

And then there are those times in which you hate everyone who has a baby who survives labor and delivery. It’s this fraction of space and time that occupies or rather seem to invade your lifespan in a blink of existence. Of course you want everyone to survive or transition with ease and as whimsically as possible.

Let’s face it though, it makes me cringe.

Every. Single. Time.

Except for when my best friend had her baby. I anxiously awaited news that her c section went fabulously and that little man was well. Then as soon as I knew all was well, I got remarkably resentful, and not of her (not of baby either). Now it meant that I would forever look at this precious realm of innocence and shroud it with the constant reminders of what we were going to relive again. Our eldest and our youngest… all the firsts our “lasts” were going to share close together… now replaced by all the firsts and all the nevers.

Somehow I have to really compartmentalize all the compartmentalized compartments into even smaller sub compartments to stay sane and claimant on our relationship.

She gracefully understands this process.

This is a gripping effort on ripping away the pain hold  that grief grabs on to, desperately.

It is incredibly frustrating to be angry with someone for just being alive. It’s not really even them though. It is the seemingly blatant disregard for my soul that the “creator” would constantly allow these situations to unfurl at my wounded base. Which, by the way, is at such a weakened state that the slightest breeze, even intended to be comforting, is trembling earth all around. It is natures gamble in regard to whether or not the structure will remain standing. The structure itself has no plan, it just waits.

There is rarely a day that goes by that doesn’t hold a note of laughter sounding off behind my every attempt to breathe quiet to my brain. In every essence of “just be” there is the subtle waft that lingers too, with an “on your guard.” In the constant effort exerting from my everything to enjoy anything, there are equally what seems like exorbitant amounts of endless prodding of my personal patience practice.

And along comes another compartment.

The section where I have to put the realization that there will always be more babies. Also, I am able to love and cherish my best friends baby in a way that i may not have before… Perhaps he will need me in the future and the little box of subconscious resentment (which, i don’t actually resent this baby or his mama – in any way, truly) that has been built into my normal will be quashed and I can let babies be born with a warm heart… but until then, I separate my pain from my love, for his little innocence is the only current hope I have to reclaim love for the cycle of life. And soon, I will no longer be able to provide this type of life cycle, which, I’m building a compartment for as well.

I didn’t know it then, but I do now…  Archaea’s death was not just hers, nor “mine,” but all the little intricacies and interweavings of what life is made from. The vein of life and death are the same and it all flows together. Every movement is intertwined with realities and possibilities and limits, and like energy, we are exchanging each others movements all the time. Thus creating another opportunity to present more pain, confusion, distortion, for every release, focus and clarity.

Every baby’s birth is my baby’s death and the death of me, our lives, reality….

I wait.

I build compartments.

I long to build one to stand on and let birth, babies, and unicorns be my open platform of personal power!

sometimes all times

my head inside, it twitches it glitches
it tosses and turns and it becomes its own snitcher
it tells on me and what not to do
it shows me that i am a fool
proof in my existence in my every day being
that what i do is i walk around and i really am never seeing
i can’t feel i can’t touch i can’t taste i can’t smell
wondering why i am here, is this my own personal hell
everyday strapped with my own set of chains
packing and unpacking
filling and unfilling drains
draining myself as low as i will go
not enough for a siphon
to suck up
so i blow
it all over the world for everyone to “enjoy”
where my life becomes a game like their own personal toy
we watch it and we play with it and we let it unfold
we fold it back up
and we make it our own                                                                                                                 into our own mold
we become artists
casting ceramic casts
hoping that we come back through the pain of our pasts
and i say that with multiples
and multiple eases
because of all the lives that i have lived
none of them have brought pleasing
andi it’s all thank yous and pleases
and no thank yous and jesus
why did i get to this place where i am at
where my life and my soul has become your welcoming mat
welcome no more
i took the mat out
threw it over the fence, fact
because of the cat with its rat
ripping the head off and throwing it down
for me to walk upon when i come back to town
so metaphorically, it is real what i say
what i tell you right now in this very day
that it is going quite fine
even though i’m quite split
and some days, most, i really feel like shit