Run run dry.
J’ai toujours aimée les illusionistes, les suréalistes, la façon dont les formes sont comme de la fumée, noircie, attrapée dans un autre monde, mais d’une manière où d’une autre qui capture quelque chose. Il ya quelque chose. La. juste la. Qu’on ne voit pas. Qu’on peut ressentir parfois, que l’on mine comme le charbon, comme l’or, comme notre désir et amour de l’autre, avec parole, avec mouvements, avec expression. Expressionisme. Chose cachée, chose trouvée, chose finement exprimée. La? Est-ce la? L’ai-je perdue? Est-ce que je la ressent?
Je la voie devant mes yeux dans l’atmosphere d’une création d’une beauté et perfection essentielle. Je la sens, swelling in me. Lors de la révélation de mon coeur. Lors de l’expression de mes sentiments.
Pourtant, il me semble qu’elle aurait disparu ces jours-ci. Je pense avoir oublié comment vivre et ne jamais l’avoir su. Dois-je le savoir?
Est-ce qu’on ne sait jamais?
I’m not unhappy enough to be unhappy just enough to not be happy
I’m not abandoned enough to be abandoned just lonely enough to feel abandoned
I chose the path that I did. I choose the path that I do. But not completely out of choices. But not completely in choice.
My brain freezes. I’m not drowning or floating or catching waves. I’m not buried in the dirt, I’m not singing in the rain. My heart is not torn. It’s a long sadness at it is a steady peace.
It’s a continuous sight that in its expression brings reflections of discontent and in its stifling brings discontent.
It’s when you say we are different and united and connected and symbiotic but I don’t feel accepted in this symbiosis. And I wonder at an anger I see on your part. And I see it on my own part. A dissatisfaction. And I feel you have infected me with your crazes. And I was sane enough to get away but not enough to not craze.
I feel I have suffocated. I feel part of me has gone and is gone. I don’t wonder if it’ll come back; that would echoe that I am connected to it still in memory and longing. It hasn’t been buried, or I would know where it is. And dig for it there. I can dig. Am I digging? Did I bury it? Why would I do that? How would I do that? Digging for something else? Did I forget it on the path?
Maybe sometimes. We leave parts of ourselves as traveler stones on the side of the road. And that is the sacrifice. That is the pain. That is the excitement.
I walk forward.
I see in myself echoes I saw in close ones before.
“My creation is shit” are the words.
Before, I felt that, but still found excitement in creating, in showing, in who would see.
It still does. But it barely seems enough? Maybe there is just too much other.
And not enough me. Those parts of me that take too much space but are not seen. They are walked over?
Will anyone ever understand
Those are the wonders
And it seems so selfish to even want to be understood
It seems pointless
That’s what the voices I have created say, stitched onto the faces I know, based on what has happened. We make assumptions. It is difficult to strip them. I know to strip them. And at the same time. They are not untrue necessarily. What are we to fill our mind with?
My heart is so heavy.
I thought. I thought the excitement would refine into refinement.
Instead, I only know I am to continue. I know the reasons I am to continue but a cloud covers and I question continuously. It doesn’t make sense and the words and images and feelings are not good enough, not beautiful enough, not poetic enough, not even emotional enough. Not deeply evoking. We all want to evoke. I want to feel something deep. Something soul shaking. That I know “THIS IS FREAKING IT MAN”
It’s not like that.
I don’t know if its meant to be like that.
Maybe it is and I’m just stupid and discontent and “misdirected”.
I dont think it works like that. I don’t know how it works.
“Mom I can breathe like a clarinetist again” was the first thing I said when I woke up in my hospital room after my back surgery on my 16th birthday. I could finally take a full breath. There is no clarinetist breathing here.
There is no dancer here.
Breath and the rythm of life pulsing within are gone.
I have this image of “the body is my temple”. And how we are to treat our body well, because it is a temple. What of pain and sickness? Is the body still a temple then? What of our emotions, and thoughts, chemicals, hormones that are of the body as well, how are we to recognize our stewardship of them when they do not truly lie in our hands? Genetics are not in the hands of the beheld.
“What is life giving to you now?” “What is not life giving to you now?”
Is it me?
Searching for what I sense. And yet the sacrifice. The pain of wondering if I’m simply crazy. The pain of needing to find a way to still speak. Everything is so tight and so clingy and so abandoned and so unclear and so unexpressed and so sticky. Icky icky.
I don’t get how people do it.
I feel like I’m carrying 500+ people’s emotions and thoughts and none of my own self.
The pain in my limbs keeps me from dancing. The pain in my heart keeps me from singing. The weight in my mind keeps me from thinking. I don’t know if I feel. But I still write.