Life and Creation

I have been thinking often of creation. Of the way I thought I had always been taught to question the rules. When did I become so accepting of what I thought my life should look like based on the opinions and values of those that surround me? When did I become so small that I forgot I can do whatever I want- be whoever I want, create whatever I want. There is no moral guide to how to spend my time. No lesson plan on what I’m supposed to do. No future we can control, no past we can change, no path marked as the solitary choice. It is a difficult cycle- breaking all the rules I have so deeply engrained into my subconcious being- do this not that, eat this not that, wear this not that, say this ignore that, be good not loud, never be too anything, make the logical choice, don’t let others down (never say no), be pretty but not vain, be motherly (caretaking) but fun, it’s not that serious, never be too bothered, it was just a joke, the word should in any context, “you’ll figure it out” as if by wandering farther into the waves I am garunteed to drown, the pity dripping from their words, as if I am not lost on purpose. There is an undeniable strength that comes with confidence despite uncertainty, people rarely understand those that choose to risk their footing on purpose, prefering the fall to stagnation. I have recently been struggling with this war in my own mind- causing an aversion to writing, painting, drawning, playing. Steering me away from expirmentation and exploration. Creation, solely for my own needs/desires/approval/release/fun/with no attachment to external factors, is a lesson I am having to learn time and time again. It is one that becomes an inch more familiar each time we meet. A challenge I am trying to learn to appreciate. What is life other than to have fun and love yourself and others- to celebrate and embrace the frivolity in life. The following are small pieces from this week touching on certain aspects of the above ideas:

Nov 23rd 8:30PM

Sometimes reading my own writing makes me sad: scared, panicked. Reading the words of a girl I will never be again, one I can hardly remember now. Was it a fluke- these words on the canvas, feathers thrown into the wind and landed carefully upon the grass in the correct cadence. Am I trying to force it now? Do I still feel? Have I lost it all? Do I care too much? I avoid my own words like the plague and write only from muscle memory. A lazy habit fulfilled for the sake of comfort. Every time I begin to live life with a normalcy to it- I feel as if I lose myself under some thick piece of glass, some fogged up mirror. I watch the window frost slowly, swallowing my screams between the panes. 

I am banging on the inside as hard as I can something is wrong! Something isn’t right! But choosing to live in ignorance of these desires is so much less demanding than the effort it takes to feel. I feel a quietness in my mind I have been missing for quite some time. My breath is shallow but present. My internal discourse muted, slower. 

I have ample energy when I am not constantly at war with my mind. A surplus I forgot I was familiar with. Enough energy to just float through the day. Enough to hold back the thoughts. This veil I am able to both self-employ and resent in awareness. 

There is only just a little piece of the work left begging for my attention. My soul, only newly ordained to the council, at risk of the guillotine once again. And recently I have been feeling this way so often, or such as the majority, that I haven’t sat down long enough to write. I haven’t allowed space for exploration of thoughts- I am once again afraid of what lives within my own home. As if they are not me and me them. As if there is no boundary where they end and I begin.

I am finding comfort within the arms of my old torturer. It is constantly so much work to live within this new mindset. To learn, listen to, and honor my needs. To constantly be thinking of myself- by trying on, at minimum, eleven different versions of my skin each day and putting them back on the hangers before bed. By trying to understand how I feel in each one. How at home each seems. To know left or right, up or down, right or wrong. Then to remind yourself that there is no right or wrong, one of the needs I am trying to learn. It’s exhausting- this cycle of old habit and new knowing and old reaction and new action and understanding feelings (HA) and how they  intersect with each other in each instance. Though emotions vary instant to instant.

I think I’ve realized in this current mindset I won’t find peace until I complete the impossible feat of understanding the relationship between every single action and decision and how it impacts my body and my life and keep track of the correct combinations that produce the most joy or validation and I am stuck in this exhausting existence where I am constantly weighing the opinion of every person in the room and contrasting it to my own and wanting so badly for my opinions alone to matter but the truth of the fact is that all the weight still lies on the side of validation; of which my favorite flavor is external and man

It feels good to write.

To see the picture in my head of understanding and vomit the words I think do the best job of creating it and to open doors to reasonings and realizations and avenues I never would have known or considered and when I read back these words it is like placing the roll of film in the projector and I don’t have to worry about losing my thoughts in the endless rush of water that runs through my brain because they are here. For me. When I need them- my words meant as a healer. Meant as a safe space to return- I nestle my head softly into the crook of the sentence. My understanding is here. It lies awaiting my return- with no judgement of what comes out- with no expectation that I will write something spectacular or profound- all my favorite pieces so far are based on moments like this- when my words come out on accident- when I have been spending my time diving into books and shows and social media to try to drown out my own knowing, my own church- all because I have been avoiding confession. Because I know god doesn’t always demand the easy option for repentance. Because I have been allowing myself one notch more shame than hope. Because I forgot what it means to just be- to exist- for myself and not through the eyes of others. 

It’s so hard this whole creation thing, or more apropraitely, this whole life thing. I’m not sure if the relationship of creation and external validation is something I can survive- honestly, I think it might eat me whole and spit out my bones for return once more.

I know this to be true, actually. Alas, I would go crazy without it- without the sharing. I am doomed to be either prey or insane. I am here only hopeful to learn.

 Nov 24th 1:18 pm 

You don’t read my writing

And I guess that’s okay,

Or at least I understand that it is your right

But I unknowingly write desperate for your approval

A need for your validation an undercurrent in everything that I do

So my insides plead from hands and knees asking white knuckled for you to tell me what you think of me

Of my thoughts

Of my abilities

I want to say, please;

Share my enthusiasm of my work

Without me having to ask you for it

To ask would defeat the whole purpose

It would make it impure

It must be digested of your own accord

Your own free will

Then sit and let’s discuss 

Please 

I am asking without words

It is pulsating through every part of my being- I see the same current running beneath your skin- your need to create

Can’t you see we share the same cloth different colors

And if we were to touch on it

I am not as novice as you believe

You are not as expert as you preach

We could meet on common ground, after you’ve read my work out of your own desire, and compare

Contrast

Argue in the helpful way

Expansion of body and mind

You don’t read my writing 

Yet still I write these words for you

Nov 25th 11:43AM 

I lay among the vines and dig my fingertips into the soil

I imagine being swallowed by the earth below

Digested into my next form

Bottled and freed once again

Filling the stomachs of those that thirst

My warmth spreading through their bloodstream

Lovesick, finally, because of me

Not for but from, and at this point the distinction means little to me

I swallow my desire

To be loved, to be known, I shift my focus to my family before me

I imagine placing my hand within the flames

Comfort in the sacrifice of my flesh 

Knowing laced in the return to ashes

The fate I am destined to meet

I am practicing gratitude

Presence

I think of death more often when I am happier

A reminder of the safety in the darkness I come from but must never dwell in

It is important to leave your birthplace

To force new life once again

I think of the joy I used to possess

My throat tightens imagining who I once was

Imagining each variation I might have been

My sinuses fill with laughter long contained

I lace my fingers with fear to keep from reaching out and grabbing ahold

Gripping tightly to her both past present and future

Could it be? That I could find her actualized once again?

Or is it just the medicine?

And is it less true if it’s delivered on a silver platter each morning instead of grown within?

I dig my fingers deeper into the soil and ask the sun to feed me- I am praying to grow. 

Freindsgiving Haiku

Joy is not often

Found where it is meant to be

In friends, it persists