xWhen did my words become so difficult to find?
It's hard to dust off the cobwebs, especially when you've made a subconscious effort to repress them. Wait, no: repress isn't the right word.
Bury.
I have buried my words.
What was once my greatest escape and means of understanding the world around me have become a liability. They are the warm droplets of blood escaping from a wound that I've tried to bind and hide and pretend doesn't exist anymore. They're scars only I can see that remind me of who I was, who I thought I was going to be, and what I became. But more than that, they're the opening in the armor that prevents me from blocking out the New Orleans style marching band of cacophony and discord that perpetually resonates in my head.
The good,
the bad,
the beautiful and tragically ugly and utterly
inexplicable.
And yet as I keep these impulses at the tips of my fingers in chains, locked away in the dark... I can feel my grip on my own identity sliding away. How do you go so long with a singular purpose only to cast it aside like a soiled towel when you need it more than ever to find that balancing point on the see-saw called life?
The answer is fuck you. You can't.
***
It's been such a long time since I've sat down at this rickety little desk to put thoughts to page that my fingers feel arthritic, my mind feels atrophied. This was like breathing for so long and now I feel like I don't know how to take a breath.
The only way to remember gravity is to just lean out against the cliff and
let...
....go.
How fickle this game of 'Twister' is.
Change comes like the sea and yet things never really change under these quiet skies.
I lay in this room,
a place still unknown and yet I'm surrounded by pictures and faces and paintings that remind me of a place I knew as safe and mine.
I find myself in terra infirma, terra incognito.
This tabula rasa carries a lot of chalk lines from the previous lives I've lived:
scratch marks of nails dragged in pain still linger just under the surface.
How do you lose track of people you're constantly around?
A fever dream, a beautiful collaboration of a seven part symphony.
Beautifully broken bodhisattvas brought together out of bond and purpose and collective bliss:
a tribe of fallen stars, fitting together so perfectly as broken shards of glass to form something
beautiful.
...
...
...
...
And somehow that mosaic seems so distant now.
Where is that collective that was once stronger than steel?
How is it that we're always together yet...
...it feels like another life since we were together?
It's a strange sensation...
...being estranged in your camp.
***
Recompense isn't easily found for me.
But once again I'm taught a truth from life:
Words to page.
Solace isn't found.
It's accepted.
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