More dreams. They only get more twisted. Taking my hopes as hostage and rendering them listless. Making sense of everything’s nothing. And -nothing- makes sense. Rising up, more like a limbo., seeking to find what is it of truth I may know. I feel like I am reaching into a melting pot and the ideas are ripe and the fruit is not. How do I get back to the feeling of elevating where the words spoken are the rhythms validating love. Endlessly. Entirely giving more more more. Still wanting to give more more more. But silence, it is misleading. Gaps are filled with meaningless pleading to an empty space. The wetness is recognized by my face and the facing of history in retrace mode. Please, I beg myself. Do not implode. Not again. Not this time. Rise up and receive the divine. Maybe In Time I will see and we will see. Maybe in time it will all make sense to me. But while time dares to not pass, I stretch my heart thin and it shatters like the glass. The same glass that I built my hearts house with, transparent and breakable in the name of love. Transparent and and breakable in the name of love. Transparent and breakable in the name of love.
This is the face of love. Each time my heart is touched by love it is etched in my soul. It creates a path of proof through the smile’s lines of love’s joy and laughter. Then wanders through the brow’s furrow of love’s wonder. It penetrates the pores pouring from love’s pain. Love looks like this.
This is the face of desperation. Pleading for the pain to process and bring peace. Begging for release from the bindings and shackles of shame from continually feeling this way. Bargaining no more, but blinded by defeat. Desperation looks like this.
This is the face of hope. Recognizing that this is a moment of an awareness of raw experience and reality. Lit up briefly by the reflections of the tears sweet brilliance of beaded reckoning. Relinquishing the idea that I have to keep it festered and vested in the cavity my soul reveals as wounded. Hope looks like this.
This is the face of disgust. Putting too much sacred deliverance into a space already self filled. Giving with relentless effort to offer more just to prove worth to the takers who’ve passed on praise. Inflicting a self imposition and acknowledgement of misalignment. Self, not self. Disgust looks like this.
This is the face of bewilderment. Standing in a cleansed body state of muddled mind. Perceptions shifting and breathing brings only moments of mild mannered transitions. In disbelief with feeling of washed over and sharing poses more as imposition, overlooked and taken for granted. Bewilderment looks like this.
This is the face of strength. Grimace and regrouping, bawling and growing. Perseverance begins to permeate after repeated experience. Going in as a dove, coming out scorched dark, now a raven, yet continually still it flies. Rising to the challenge baffling the deliverer of discourse. Strength looks like this.
This is the face of grief. The sudden onset of not understanding that operations continue. Disbelief of lack of attentive heart compassing language and cognition. Wayside, left in wonder. Sad overcame by weight weighed by a judge of less caliber. Cast aside and left alone in the debris of dismantling. Grief looks like this.
Guess what? I am grieving again… Again… Again… Again… was silently. The last four days. Grief. Again.
And I’ve been holding it into myself because let’s face it, who really cares?… Yeah I know that we all say that we care, because of course we do. But at the end of the day isn’t it just another emotion, again? Again?
This is not the kind of emotion that you can just not have… Yes you can work on triggers, you can work on breathing, you can work on a holding it and letting it be and acknowledging it,… But eventually it goes away, again. It’s not something that is “Dealt ” with the never to resurface. It does resurface, again. And sinks and rises again.
And I don’t think that people don’t care, because I know in their form of caring they do, we do. We all have our capacities. The closest people in my relationships don’t even ask me how my heart is doing in relation to the death of my daughter. It’s hard to want to go there for them… Again.
I think I have one friend who actually inquires about Archaea specifically. So I know at least one out of my hundreds of friends and even at that the closest people in my life… Someone cares. Which helps phase the day… Again.
But moreover I think the bitterness comes from within. Because the levels that grief touches are constantly surprising me. Over and over I find myself saying… “Am I still feeling this again?” “Am I really at this moment again”…
And again I find myself saying… “No one has ever been here before. Not even you. (to myself) No one has ever experienced this moment in time and space emotion heart and brain. I am the first to navigate this. People are welcome to be on or off my ship, but the captain I must remain, and feel all these waters out… And search for a stable ground. “. …again.
I feel vibrations on the ground and tires trembling over the earth. With each rotation and gripping of the rubber onto the gravel, my breath subsides. I track the volume and duration of travel. Little bits of hope escaping the stronghold of knowing better and disappointment. Breathe again. Now I hear nothingness. Hope remembers this feeling and falls away fast.
Among all the other shifts, I could feel this one floating about my essence. Taunting, in its own subtle form, only offering enough aloofness to keep my instincts peaking. It could have been that a friend gave the plain prophecy or rather New Years resolution in disguise. He knew I knew., but to know, and breathe the actual thickness of the air where it should be light and brisk… that is the knowledge. also, the knowledge to come.
A few deep personal issues have come to a head the last week and it was expected. I felt ironic that the timing of what I spoke about months ago have taken place in my observation within such the time frame and now I am facing many things full face.
I have seen my face in the reflection in each person I have encountered and applied some form of judgment on. It is simply amazing how much the judgement I don’t actually pass on others gets absorbed by my own interpretation of who I am. I take in all these assumptions and let the direction of opinion be stewarding.
Now after have been going through some life changing moments recently, I observe that there is a new beginning. It’s esoteric but timely and is most assuredly described as cliche
the free resolution turned my faded goal of yesteryear back in toward my interrogation of self and scrutinized the very thing I keep running into. Blame. And in the process of finding happiness in the midst of darkness I keep pulling the cloak further over the progress.
Entering the new year was to represent another day. Another chance to show who I am, despite how I think I am turning into one crazy deluded woman on a mission to understand pain.
Entering the new year was to be a breath of fresh and ready filled air. Oxygenated with aspirations and inspirations.
I did not anticipate having to exit the end of the year watching what I do not have. Nor did I even come close to anticipating that to bring in the new year I’d once again be breathing the heavy air that holds my body down to the seat so that it doesn’t rudder away with the speed of which my heart beats.
But I was thankful for the company that I was blessed with. It leveled my heart just enough so I could see and have the knowledge that now I know, it is time to focus on intentional healing. Even in the pain that lingered from precious and previous days, there was a love holding my understanding or at least holding enough of me so that I felt secure enough to express my dualities of existence in the previously mentioned experiences.
Entering into the new year has provided ample opportunities to utilize the information gathered through last. It is an energy that is a risen vibration, waiting to be tapped into. Human conditions are fighting just as strong to be in charge and I am in the sense of feeling astral.
I can only hope that more of us will continue to heed the purity of instinct, deliverance or receiving the messages. Internal work. Eternal work.
It’s always been a path that has twisted the second I have put my foot upon what was perceived as stable earth. Especially any time I have made any proclamation of change or declarative to myself. Or anyone else for that matter. There was never really a beginning step, nor do I see the paths direction clearly now.
It has an air of taste but not fully indulge, regardless of the all you can eat buffet. It is the holding back children from the desert bar after eating all their dinner. A reminder to the senses that they are only in control of detecting deliciousness but not given the utensils to fulfill the salivation for hope and fulfillment.
Looking into the mirror has been a ritual in compartmentalism and I think I have become the pastor of preaching projection. The imagery that I am seeing in this reflection is of generic body parts and decorations on the anatomy. it’s not a clear picture, it is a bit foggy. And yet it is clearly seen as a component for an opportunity to critique my whole self, none the matter of the bold attempt to witness through another’s observation.
Moments of beauty linger still and wrap their scent stamp of importance. immersing ideas that memory and present agenda can somehow coexist. Breathing in a breath that was taken years already before and freshly adorned with a sound. This envelopment of calming acceptance has been trying to guide an old soul. The urgency of anew has been heeded. Moving into the fog has been the design all along.
I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what it is with this feeling I don’t want to let go
but I know I’m no longer healing
I can see the happiness congealing
into little pools. …
when I pass by
i see the reflection of only a fool
who keeps trying to jump over the puddle forgetting it’s a river
forcing myself to Drown,
into a sliver of hope
waiting for it to Hold my body
and help me Float
Flow freely, I don’t wanna keep repeating these same mistakes
waiting and hoping for love to grow,
but it won’t,
how could it when I raise the stakes every day.
This is loves game to play,
bounce the heart back-and-forth between what is real
and what is my reality,
what is real to me?
I only shorten that time by the time I spend questioning
the time I spend assuring
that deception is luring and
obscuring the clarity,
the hilarity is the severity
of how disparity takes a hold of me
and I see that I can see
but I’m blind to the outcome,
trying to outrun
the inevitability that this journey is done, drug me down turned me into someone that is no longer some one’s
present and certainly not future…
it’s fear is pure.
Born out of hell for the last two years. And now I can see
how I am responsible for these
about to be tears.. .
All the hypocrisy
coming from my broken mirror.
No wonder it all looks mispieced
and no wonder my perception
is not perceived the way that I can, conceptually
this is a malfunctioning plan
if I expect to somehow reflect
these jagged edges
and expect you to understand
and make them smooth
and cut clean like hedges..
still broken and rebuilt
but preferred to stack my brokenness tidy and esthetically,
brick by brick of emotion
as to predict the pattern accordingly, unfortunately
or a misfortune for me
or perhaps it is all jumbled beautifully, but when you look you see
shattered and shredded stories
staring back at you
from your imagery of truth,
and hear from your preferred tuning
in or tuning out of the details
and the reply is emptily
offering empty hearts,
easily breaking apart ,
what little is left of loves art
am i allowed to tell it like it is? i feel veiled and slightly filtered. i feel like i should be able to tell it like it is. but i am not sure if i do. sometimes i believe that i the story i represent of myself is true. like, i really am that fierce. like i really am that brazen. but i dont tell it like it is. i tell the veiled, the filtered version.
if i was allowed to tell it like it is, really tell it like it is, then there would be an intensifying disdain for my presence. there would be an ever present caution of character when i arrived. that might be cause for me to become brazen. but i dont tell it like it is. i tell the version that your ears are hearing.
if it was allowed for you to hear what i am saying, really telling it like it is, then there would be a real genuine empathetic growth in relationship. an understanding of expression and not an attack on what the original interpreter suggests it means. but that would take a miracle, to hear it like it is.
it doesnt feel like i am able to tell it like it is. it is personified through the filter of personal experience and interpreted with a lens of altered perception. though it may be of the same resonance, it is never the same received as to which it was delivered. hear it, but not like it was.
would i be able to receive it like it is. it is a pondering that lingers. i applaud jokingly for myself as i attempt to persuade myself to believe that i would have none of the altering that i accuse generally amongst fellow human. that i would be able to hear what is being told to me like it is as a genuine expression of their inner heart and world and it is their process that is true and therefore important to tell. for me to help them understand that yes, empathy and love are a real thing.
I don’t wanna do this anymore and by this I mean that and by that I mean whatever it is that proclaims to be fact. in my experience, fact is just a misconception of perception. Fact is we are just an example of an alternative personification. there’s more layers to it than just one or two, which will encapsulate the idea of what it means to be you. You have to go down at least six or seven personas further. Fact is we are just fiction covered in a multiple media moldable plaster of lustre. Overwhelming the egos stature or, boasting that its perception is the only one available or factual. Fact being prepared and produced through the eyes of the one who lives in self-induced demise. Always implying that what they are saying is no way displaying an active disapproval or an act of a mouthful of lacked truth, full of Words that are heard but have no definition. words that are delivered to be accepted without friction, just factual diction. again, encouraging you to understand that it can no longer stand to be what is held on the pedestal of undeniable truth, no longer served to our famished and truth-seeking youth. fact is the words are regurgitated fractions of agitated hack jobs applying for the positions of manifesting life long words of manipulated wisdom. its looking grim, son, so i am done, i don’t want to listen anymore to the distortion of fact in your swoon song.
it took a little longer but it has come again, and the interest of keeping its company is wearing incredibly thin. it is not welcomed and never invited to stay, yet no matter how many times it is dismissed, back to me, it finds its way.
why is it so insistent and why does it think it is wanted? it only leaves me hollow and my soul left haunted. it begins by tip toeing a twirl around my spirit, and tries to offer a swoon of songs, starting so softly, alluring me to hear it.
how many times have i looked into its implying eyes, intentions of hope while the path laid ahead is paved by lies. how many times have i fallen into its hand basket, so pretty and made well..i cry out simply, too many too many too many to tell.
it takes opportunities to jab its insults, leaves remnants of disturbance, radical distortions and tumult. even among the scattered shrapnel and debris, it spins its webs of false ideas and ideals, waiting to snare its prey, me.
i stand with resistance and beg for it to leave, disappear, don’t return. stop looking at my soul to set your fire in, find nowhere else to burn. enticing me, with its smoking curls and its beckoning brimstone, i run, i seek refuge in love, that is my home.