My arms are fire and my head is set free. I close my eyes and I ask, one question becomes a thousand, and I am back at square one. No real answers. But then I sense the flame and it pushes me face first inward, into my deepest fears. The memories, the inadequacies, the needs from love to acceptance, all of my failed pursuits, they dance around me as I flare my arms at them. But those are fears and they are not real, they are not me, they do not control what I am, who I am. I torch the first fear, then the second and I realize that there is nothing in there, just air. Empty air. Until the fear of insanity comes running and howling at me, am I insane? No. Just another fear, the most powerful one of all. So where did all my pain and panic come from? No answer, nobody in that room. Nobody behind the steering wheel, nobody holding the pen. So I sit back and I let that let down happen. I hoped for a mastermind, I hoped that I would get to face a stronger opponent, and Yet here I am, baffled. What lay inside when all the fear is gone? How would I live when it’s no longer about avoiding fears and reacting to them? Where will I go when I stop running? Who will I become when I simply am ?
Words roll out like red carpets beneath the feet of worshipers, and I cannot hold them back. As though prisoners have been let out. As though nothing can ever be said again the same way. Words form and collapse right infront of me and I am letting it all slide, no filters or fillers, nothing to add and little to subtract. A complete cycle of renewal, nothing is pale and everything is sincere. I set this space free, my arms are fire and my words are here.
I wish I could write better stories, ones that would sway you into that parallel world of meaning, of clear beginnings and rightful ends. I wish I could provide you with mental images of severe beauty, the kind that moves your entire being, yet still manages to anchor you in an aesthetic serenity. I could write about moments that shake your senses, moments that you almost believe are yours alone, moments that stop your mind for a split second and you are in absolute surrender.
What if i wrote to you about the few seconds in between your last conscious thought and the beginning of your dream, where your mind softly switches and you have no control but to exist elsewhere, in a self composed dream as your body lay still, resting. How do i begin to describe the warmth of a hug when you truly need it, or the intensity of a push when you don’t see it coming?
I look for words everywhere, and when i find them I stop for a second and then I panic, because how do i possibly bring to life something so subjective yet absolutely intimidating. I suppose that is the quest for meaning, the eternal pursuit begins and ends with putting words to thoughts, and emotions in hopes of transcending a flawed perception of reality.
Everyday I start over, everyday I give it a rest then I try my best to not think about how I’m starting and not finishing. I am not finishing anything; not thoughts, nor books or conversations; I don’t even finish a lie to myself. So I start again until I can stop and tie all loose ends, bound my boxes and pack my suitcases and try to finish my day somewhere better.
It’s all pressed to my chest, all the desires, the hopes and the fears. I have them stapled to my clothes and I am lost in the baggiest dress I have ever slipped into. I am lost below the color fades and the heated fabric. There is more yet to come and I am bound to grow back into my own skin.
I do not know how to disappear, I do not feel. I am. Once again, I am everything I attempt to be with the power I have today. Sometimes I’m big sometimes I’m small and I cannot help but changing sizes and switching sides. I cannot contain my joy and I have no limits to my fears. Where are the lids, the joints and the limbs that people talk about? I have so much composure yet I do not know where it begins and where I end. I have no recollection of poise in my mind. That is why I thank my face daily- I would have never made it this long if it weren’t for my unbelievably helpful body. It truly is my blessing. If I were to live as a brain alone I would have exploded such a long time ago into a billion and one thoughts scattered like freckles on an insecure beautiful little girl’s face.
When my day is almost gone and I look at a lost October and a past birthday I feel the gravity of my company and the sweetness of my senses as they allow me the coziness of a night fully mine and a darkness too loving and genuinely present.
It’s all happening as I write believe it or not, it’s all in my mind, the words right before I write them, and the thoughts right before I think them. I am just as aware as the second girl you meet. I do not know how to be anything else.
Every time I mistake myself for a fully understood and past project I surprise myself again and I crack a joke to ease the awkwardness of meeting a new friend, or foe for that matter.
Someday, some way, I suppose things ought to change. They always do. I always find my way, I’m sure you do too. I’m not just a brain after all, my home is my body too. And it’s exactly where I’d like to sleep.
To everything and everyone there is an inside and there is an outside; the beauty however is in neither. The beauty is in the upside down and the inside out of everything and everyone.
Too many distractions, I breathe in seconds and breathe out days. I cannot let this happen tonight, well at least not right now. These seconds are mine, I see them, I feel them, I hear them; I’m stretching them and clutching them letter by letter.
Letter by letter, these seconds make no sense. Word by word, I’m alone in a big city, in a dark room; it’s already past midnight and I’m under black and pink covers trying to save my life one word at a time.
Trying to save my life words start seeping out of my perfume bottles, they trickle down my glass of water, they jump out of notebooks, and slide over mirrors onto the floor making their way up my bed. In a city that never sleeps, I lay wide awake cradled by hundreds of words.
Some words are smudged with hate, others glow with marvelous truth and beauty. Some words are half said, half written, while others gather in clusters of needless repetition. They are all just words after all, but I never let any go. I never allowed one word to approach me and leave, they all stayed because I needed them to; I made them mine.
I fall silent faced by too many words. Somehow there is too much to be said but no one to be said to. Somehow there is too much to give and no one to give to. Somehow being utterly alone dawned on me hours before dawn. Somehow, I need every word to return back to it’s origin and let me let go. Somehow I am more than alright facing just me. It’s all real, every second and every fear, but somehow I don’t need any saving tonight.
I have erased more than 16 full texts by now and I still find every word I write ridiculous to the bone, it bothers me. Sentences are like insects they crawl in asymmetric lines and bug me. I am disgusted by my melancholic metaphors and self fulfilling messages. I have finally become too pretentious for my own sake. It’s no literary pleasure, it’s literary vomit that i have been producing lately. I am shocked that nobody has slapped some sense into my hard head yet. But considering my seclusion loving character, i must discipline my own performance.
Spare me the lectures of my elders and my peers’ experienced opinions. They read my posts and think they have the power to now sum up my personality traits into sane or pathological patterns of self dysmorphia. I do not write for an audience I write because I don’t speak so well. I can’t make much sense vocally. So there goes, not art just convenience, another way of practical living; survival.
A rant; perhaps. Artistic rebellion; perhaps. There I go with my lyrical worship attempt. Again.
I must lay off the music, the books and the unsupervised freedom of expression. Unsanitary unnecessary classification of my human experience. I am a suggestive sensual and anarchic case of shy and dismissive femininity. I am so full of words I am a poem overflowing into rhythmic confession. Dear lord I beg thee, let me cause no harm and feel no hurt for I am an inconclusive case of human contradiction.
Forgive me and Forgive thee for an imperfect design. Forgive and watch a beauty so extraordinary peel through the shredded failure of human impotence. Forgive, and let my poem live.
I paint my lips the color of indifference and I stare at my pale face. Today I’m not making any effort, not for myself or anyone for that matter. Colorlessness suits me.
Lost, but I keep moving. Lazy and obnoxious, I let everything go; I genuinely do not care. Pointlessness remains a headline for my daily life regardless how sparkly it might seem for spectators; it remains spotless, bottomless and boring.
Purpose is still just a word; and words are nothing but excuses that when put together in a slightly aesthetic way, might shield our absence. I am afraid I could be falling out of love with words. Unnecessary shields of our temporary realities; which we so comprehensively dismiss.
So really, corrupt me in every way. Perhaps I need no walls, I need no doors or structure. Let it all fall I have no place for it anymore. I decided to break tonight. So flood me, and I want to see what parts of me surface.
You mess up my hair, my bed and my mind. You change my accent, my perspective and my expectations. You shake my shoulders and beat my brains with words and tunes. You lift everything up and then we both fall through the crevices of eachother. You have no reason but your want. You need nothing but your need. You are you and I’ve never known any you like you. You even make me write weird.
You dared to smash up the hardest work I’ve ever done. You had the nerve to break my barricade, you know no boundaries.
Let’s compete and see whose limits die first. Chase this fleeting insanity and choke it with ridiculously good music. You break my wall, I break yours. Then we are even. You permeate my space, I move into yours.
Close enough? We haven’t even begun yet, so don’t look away.