self-awareness. how bout it.

I've been getting really annoyed at life lately, namely, in the observing other the general population's behaviors...

Everyone has always got something to say, whether that is their political views, religions vomiting, or regurgitation of pop culture (shoot me), that they don't even see how futile these breaths are, this WASTED energy.


I am getting angry just thinking about it.

And yet, things like "I want to change my life, I've gained weight, how do I get healthy," all the actually important shit, gets swept under the rug because maybe it's not too cool to talk about or perhaps it's too fucking difficult.

I've been finding myself checking out, and checking out hard. When I am in the midst of conversations like this is my present state of self, I'm either found walking out of these situations, or poutting myself into a deep, trance like meditation to preserve my precious mind (hence why I do not watch the news, horror films, television, and the like).

The amount of energy, and passion that is projected behind these talks, these 'views' that so fervently need to be shared, disgust me. how can we be so unaware?


 How can we honestly think that these are the things that should be highlighted in this beautiful life?

If only the general human populace had 1% of that passion and awareness as to what is going on in reality tv, sports, or other bull shit they like to quack about, into their OWN SELF AWARENESS, maybe this world wouldn't be such a fucked up place after all.

Maybe we would be more mindful in using one trilliongabillion pieces of paper in corporate America, wasting 75% of our meals when we dine out because we are on some stupid ass diet followed by "I'll take the cheesecake," in how we treated this thing that we call earth, oh wait, is that the medium that allows us to even be alive at all? Weird. I haven't thought about that in twenty years.

These topics and the lack of any awareness, whatsoever, disturb me to my current state of "checked out." As I observe these daily tendencies of most individuals, I am left, mouth agape, at the square thought process, tilling and toiling in the negative muck that, hold on to your bootstraps, is MADE UP BY US.

confidence through words

is it not enough to bring forth your own confidence in holding up a belief, thought or feeling of yours?


why is it that we need to bring in a coup of 'other supporters' to fluff what we are about to say so the other person becomes distracted in the deemed 'righteousness' of the credibility with which that person speaks with?


instead, why can't we just be vulnerable enough to throw it out there? no matter how uncomfortable it makes us feel, how deeply it ruffles our feathers and how we are then left with no control over what the other person's response or reaction to what we are saying will be?


these things get easier the more you repeat them. and yes, bringing forth credible sources is fitting when you're trying to make a mark in writing a paper-when plagiarism comes into question-but the beauty of being human is that we can talk in first person. and that first person is you. it is your experience, it is your, perception of the world through your experience. believe it or not it is self absorbed- you know now other way.


therefore, let that vulnerability shine and let it be enough that YOU feel this way and want another person to know. don't come with loaded guns. that's exactly what we are trying to get away from here. get back to you. that's all you need. be confident enough in your own skin suit that you don't have to bring in the reinforcements to have your back.

a'changin

Shit's


a


changing




folks.

big shit.

the way I feel about air freshner(s), is the same way I feel about pharmaceuticals.




they're bull shit. a mask for what's in front of us, surrounding us, effecting us, vexing us.




why?




imagine you just took a big shit.




we've all been there and can relate.




you know it's gunna smell gnarly.




now, wouldn't you rather own the stank and rock it,




versus letting the smelly ass particles grip onto some man made other shitty smell(s) -smells promising to take you to far away fairy tale lands, laden with rolling hills of roses and fresh breezes-that will, inadvertently drown the surrounding air with shitty, carcus smelling flowers, lingering longer than if you'd actually let the shit storm pass by?




all we are doing here is spending money to mask a smell(s)  (see most scripts for medications-in this case, masking symptoms), in a shoddy, ineffective, rather disgusting guise.




air shouldn't smell. in the neutral sense of air.




if there is a smell in the air, it will be/should be, a natural by product of a catalyst- think: cooking,
painting, farting.




the medium is the air.




we are the shit storm.




so whatever we've created in the medium of this space-air-have a go at this:


expire the masks. don't mask the feels. embrace the shits. get uncomfortably comfortable in all the shitty symptoms.


and then,


let it pass.

until you have no words.

What’s left? No tickling words, a head space cleaned with the night crew, spotless in imperfection. Subdued and covered up, brushed under the rugs told to be ok now. Suck it up.

 

Dad’s arm, teaching small infant ‘neath first swim, holds billowing curls ‘neath gurgling waters, water leaking into mouths  panicked attempted to vacumm seal in the life lines of oxygen left. The seonds pass, gun shots to the mind, soul squirming, eyes twinkling with each bite of fractioned light, rewound in slow motions, trying gripping begging for it to end, twelve months passing, though not even four seconds a’met.

Then it stops. Mighty force dissipates, bobbing head gasping for air, crashing through waters walls. Stillness ensues. Things rearranged, hidden in the spaces. Slowly, steadily treading to shore, naked body trickling in substance not his.

 

And so, it all vanishes. So the story goes. You’ll meet this moment again. I assure you. And you’ll wipe your brow, mop your shivering body to a place of comfort and put on the suit that isn’t you.

It will repeat. Over and over. And over again.

Until you have no words. And you find your head ‘neath the water, grasping for air. Confused as an flightless balloon. The thoughts race, panic ensures, head submerged under the water, bashing brain back and forth between the mind’s house, and you’ll see a light, that thought will pull itself up out the well with stolen ropes. You’ll place it in your hand, seashell found on shore, gazing quizzically at the shape, the colors. Here comes the pang, discomfort, the fear snaps off your neck. Seashell assailed, catapulted back into the sea.

puzzle pieces

in some satirical distortion of prayer and pose, the daggered edge of a puzzle piece once seemingly so fitting.

nay and sans all tumbling space fillers, projectile vomit in the eyes of the knight. to listen, not leach in head bashing discourse, eyes twisted attempted escape in attic of head for to stay shall be death, committed in coffin yeth.

mind slaughtering goath, praise have you no ear? guts knotted, ropes anchoring ship, like body dried up, on shore shown woe a muck.

dripping, gasping for air, the thrashing combat caught from tide 'ver tide. in vertigo, life altering silence, truth slamming and bashing brain stems, African drums in tribal ceremony. Listen now will you? Ye pieces no longer afit. In-pose vacillation, walls caving in, reality shattered, deemed whiplashing halt in life.

gazing up in smothered perplexion, for idenity a'gone, this puzzle but a'new. invitations thrice met, cast afloat no remose, crept dissimulation with 'er a passing night. Turned on in ear, in heart, and soul, chocking in throat, no voice, sounding to demote. Strength shattered, stained glass, rainbows exploding like kites ajet n'air. What's to come, still unknown, puzzles chrysalis, rudimentary silhouettes, expressionism, dancing ballerinas with site of shore.

it's not...

it is not what you do
in the light
that counts




it's what you do
in the
dark


----------------------------------------------


no es lo que se hace
a la luz
la que cuenta




es lo que tu haces
en la oscuridad

just breathe.

Raw, naked and undone. The place comith in thirst for earthshattering breath, inhale through smoky purified fog, stillness held captive in angelic bliss. When all else stripped away, the fabrics worn, rejected by soul’s light, lay strewn, chair and floor about the four walls of protection surrounding the gentle majestic hid ‘neath.

Letting free the exhale of all which that no longer serves, the tiresome weight of all that is not hers, dancing along the vines of unseen air. Seven, six five, count down the seconds until all is vanished from her delicate skin, intricately woven into a perched beauty. Dull pangs of grief and sorrow in a low vibration, hitting hard in places hidden.  Strangers to her,  picked up from passersby’s along commutes, handed out freely, unknowing, overwhelmingly available, like wanderlust barnacles sucking in life dependent hold, feeding, freeloading on her body like baleen whale,  transit through the currents of everyday life, invited and often otherwise.

Ten thousand pounds, inhaled, fissures come to close, perched in the stillness of self and being. Exhale, in concentrated focus to release the pains and troubles of a universe. Exhale, nine, eight, dancing tingles tease of lightness hidden ‘aneath.

Mind swimming,  piqued understanding, pages flipping to next, love trickling, washing over like feathers fallen from birds a’soar in painted skies, freeing vexed brow and heavy heart. Corners of plump lips pulled upwards by twinkling, bright eyes, the soul inviting the outward self back home, back into the white billowing sheets, surrounded by soft, fierce love, her naked self lay exposed.

what you're actually saying.

"It's not that bad."


So it's bad.


"I'm not so bad."


You're doing badly.


"It is what is it."


Indifference.


Lack of pointed response.


"Let it go."


Scared to explore some uncharted and uncomfortable territory that has occurred.


"I was just wondering if..."


Just connoting to lack of confidence in propsed statement, lacking confidence, apologetic, seemingly a 'bother'....

stories told.

Wrapped up, snuggled safely in our “story”- this projection that is thrown out into the universe, used to identity ourselves in this vast and scary thing called life.  A story we’ve painted, colors chosen, outlined in familiar expressions; albatross. Hand crafted to fit some paradigm, paralleled within the confines of flashing scenes in waking hours.

Lost. In this story.  Au courant. An insipid cocktail, vehemently caressing our soft palate. Trite.  Rinse, wash, repeat. Humdrum, singing passé melodies, quicksand to our growth; divine sprouting mucked.

Prisoners blanketed in unfolding scenes carefully woven in guile and pointed outlines. Alcatraz. Seduction like saccharine, rose pedals sprinkled twinkling lights effervescently agape to paths ahead.

Characters passing through malleable in shape and form, flitting across turning pages, chapter by chapter,  flowing in and out where seemingly fit, ocean tides changing like seasons, igniting changes red crimson on crisp autumn leaves, tweaking pigments, altering our expressions.

Bathed and dripping in obedience, bleak, jaded, sacrificing unbeknownst to self, possibilities limited, stomped out like coals once ablaze with life effervescent. Lost, in such a reality, staunch in perceived gaze, arm’s length in compass diameter; confined. Foot binding life into three inches-two-one.

We get so wrapped up in that reality, that we forget to look up. To balance, realign and allow the sky in its limitless expansion to humble us, right back down to our toes, tucked into our shoes, body’s infrastructure meeting earth’s. This enables us to see a bigger picture than our limited vision that is self focused. Blue skies, twinkling rays of sun, birds flying. Inhale. Expanding in colors, yellow, and red, smiling green, twinkling purple. Expressions exhale, casting a smile upwards, freeing to what all is.

luncheon talks.

The lunch talk was politics, religion, and other fancified bull shit that plagues this world's toxic tongue-things that back in the day would have made me squirm with discomfort, making me feel as though I had to pipe up and step up to bat, contributing something I may or may have agreed with, just to fulfill some unwritten, unspoken contract that we all tend to hang over our own heads for 'showing up' to this one.

Blah blah blah. 

But today was different. Call it maturity, not giving a fuck, or what have you, but today I chose to walk straight up out of this conversation. I sat there in silence for the moments leading up to my lofty escape for as long as I could bare, staring annoyingly at the few hairs I missed whilst shaving my legs earlier in the AM; I stared in silence until I could no longer find an article on the under-sole of my shoe that held my zombie-d out brain vibrations. Then, I fled.

Surely there were contorted face exchanges, droppy and rolling eye balls in the ugliest of deformaties going around the room, pst pst's about how dare the new girl, contract worker at that, leave our "visual-department-at-Bonton-Corporate-Milwaukee-Wisconsin-fascinating-luncheon-conversation, walk out at such a rare event.

 Gag me. 

Ciao kittens. This, friends, is the art of peacing the fuck out.

While plugged back in at my cube to sound vibrations ping ponging around in my various chakras, in desperate attempts to fix whatever brain cells I just lost in this last thirty minutes of agony, I felt a presence behind me, one that I prayed wasn't the guilty 'shoulder tappist' of the cube farm, for today, I would have punched her in the face, with her own fist-lo and behold, it t'was my boss. A lovely little nugget of a woman, 1,289,374,983,274 months pregnant, ready to explode a new human thing into the medium of this universe. I look up as she taps my shoulder-what is with people and shoulders-fuck. "Sorry if that got a bit deep," she says. An entertained smirk intoxicates my face. "No way! It's just that i had nothing to add to the conversation. Call it me getting older or whatever, frankly, I just don't feel like I always have to say something," I said. "That's one of the qualities I like most about you. There's a time to b a potter and a time to be a pot, my dad says, you're being the pot, a sponge," she said.

In walks a third party. This happened to be the girl in the luncheon that replied "...that is why I say nature is my religion," when talks of religion landed its naked body on the table. Our conversation, clothed in imported burlap coffee sacks, world maps and flowers adorning my small environment, arrived on an island called Grenada, a place I never knew existed on planet earth. The closest knowledge I had was of Granada, Spain... Tales of machetes, jungle boys and dogs called "tall boy." These, are the conversations worth adding any of the cents I have toward. The things that should be on the minds and tongues of people, things that actually have substance, challenging the mind, opening the heart and soul to the 196 countries that we could be talking about; real conversations, ones that stimulate the tips of the tongue, and all of the senses alike. Ones we can actually get somewhere with, and somewhere positive at that. No, I am not saying that it is taboo to speak on the aforementioned topics. I am saying that if we spent half the amount of time we do talking of bullshit, defending our opinions and casting judgement onto literally everything we possibly choose to get offended over, maybe this world wouldn't be so fucked up. Lets use are brains for things that are constructive, positive, game changers.

Just a thought...

Rewinding to the climactic precipice in my decision making process of exiting the conversation, the thought demons polluted my brain space, thoughts of " I'm going to piss someone off-cue guilt- maybe I'm being immature, and I'm the one with the problem, not able to man up and speak of these loaded topics...." The ego can be a real tricky dick...and I started to believe it, feeling the spiral begin in the first moments of sitting back at my desk.

Little did I know that by following my gut and following through with what my entire body was telling me to do, I would have established not only a whole new understanding and connection with two humans I could have otherwise continued a separate yet office co-existence, but I was able to trust myself and fly. I was able to spark new connections to neurological steams that will continue to bring forth the real me, the me that will have no problem peacing the fuck out when things don't resonate with my soul.

lone soul.

What is it that we seek to explore?

Most often, nothing.

What questions don't we ask one another?

Ourselves?

Inquire.

What will we find?

 

You find.

"You're a good listener."

Aren't we all  in search for just this?

But do we return what it is we seek?

L e t i t s t e w.  

What will we find?  If I asked you what it is you sit with when you are alone, will you know? Will you be able to discern through the madness, the whipping thoughts, emotions, photos, memories, the words, the feelings without crying, without overwhelm, without veering off on a path you may have let go? Did someone tell you "it is what it is?"

But do you believe them?

Are there things you seek to explore but have the heart to look back on? Or forward to?

We hear but we don't l i s t e n.

We listen and think we h e a r.

When our thorns are disrupted, the ones that dig deeply into our unsifted wounds, we retreat. We hide like a soldier in the dugouts, deep within the shrappings of our dungeon we've crafted through lifetimes, the angles, the lighting, the smells and sounds strategically measured and placed into an equation for safety. An equation that will never be fool proof.

 Because life h a p p e n s.

And when those thorns fire up when we seek to listen, we run. We run and we run, faster into the night, faster in time, finding shortcuts to bury the wounds, treasures sinking to the ocean floor, ricocheting off the cliffs and stones, the mountains of our experience.

"It will be what it will be, because life has taught me so." To let go, to cease rumination, to chalk it up to "something of the past," ashes floating on twirling breeze.

What if I asked you if it was an opportunity? What if I told you that it didn't have to be what deemed, is. That to explore is to live this authentic left of self, to replay the scene, flashing forward and backward, quill in hand writing the pages of the story, each day unfolding. That all things will change through required self inventory.

That there is not what is but what has happened,  Not a missed opportunity or a clandestine moment, but a loop hole in the story. A story of your life, one handcrafted for yours truly, requiring you to show up. Requiring your active participation in the crossing of the T's and the dotting of the I's, because without your presence, it will be left unfinished. Untilled.

What if it's not scary? What if it's just lonely, yearning for affection, tender love, an embrace of understanding, truth, belonging?

A c c e p t a n c e.

What if it,  just wants to be h e a r d ?

things overheard.

woman:


"it's that thing, where the smart people live, and the dumb people die."


me:


"survival of the fittest."


woman:


"yeah, natural collection."


me:


....thinks to self. you just died.

perspective.

I have this theory that your eyes are the gateway into your soul. We've all heard this through the vines before. however, mine goes a bit deeper, as I venture to say that each and every "thing" we take in through our eyes shapes our being, our soul.


I tend to be told of my stunning eyes. I respond humbly, "it's because of the vast amounts of ocean, nature and sky I drink in."


I hold strong to this. The things I've seen, the magic I've helped to create, that I've witnessed, it's strung along in dangling white lights, thinking through the drapes of mine soul, shedding love and light onto those that have a sip from my fountain.


Soul foods fed, through living, experiences, beauty seen, love shared, moments had, grace, positivity and encompassing your world in the mindfulness of acquiring such surroundings, makes up the foundation of your-self. therefore, leaving you in overflow, fulfilled or lacking nature of the aforementioned extensions.


I choose to create a life that is centered around wholeness. through self awareness, truth, light, love. through creation. in sending out the vibrations and the outlines of what I seek to find in this world. what my soul desires as its true path to a conscious, fulfilled and contently divine existence.


So when my eyes twinkle in your gaze, it's proof I have loved. It is proof I have felt, in pain or compassion, I've felt the rawness of this life that knows no boundaries of consistency, for nothing in this life is static or in promise of its continued existence within the grasp of our existential breath. the proof that I have flowed. that life has scooped me up, ever so gently, by the strings of my being, chaperoning me as I ride the waves, ripple by ripple, each one having its diving place in the orchestration of some bigger picture unforetold to mankind. the universe. The single verse that is sung, by you, and I, the shared craft from source to sea.


So when you ask me what it is that makes mine eyes twinkle in the glow of this life, I will paint you a picture of the journey I've shared, from external to internal, that shapes my glare. for I see things now that have upset my current, and brushed my tides out of sync, leaving me abreast in the pixilated reality of what is before me. the lights are dimming as the gates slowly retreat, from the things once held in sight, feel vacant, vast. leaving. the things I have seen, they're still there, in the outskirts, where wanderlust passes startling sensitivity, joining her for mid arvo tea. where things are beautiful, possible. unique.


The moment will come where the music dances off my ears, where each flower sways me so deeply into the night. again. but for now, the lights have dimmed, the music dying softly, it trickles to the ocean floor, where twinkles have no face, no float, no foe.


Contorted in furrowing brows, eyes smeared in contrasting pantones, the discourse you see is what I see. through these, one, twinkling, eyes.

Things Unheard.

I’m sure you, like me, posed the “ would you rather be deaf or blind” scenario as a little kid, each of you engrossed in a mere seconds thought, weighing the pros and cons of walking a few miles in one versus the other , eventually coming to a definitive conclusion: deaf, or blind. My memory of this is different. Wavering back and forth, blind or deaf, plaguing me as I would verbalize my list of whys: to be blind meant no longer seeing horses, the sea, flowers, Mom, Dad, and  deaf on the other hand, meant wind would be void of sound, there would be no music, laughter, crunching leaves, familiar laughs. Vividly, I can recall a routine opting out of responding, or voting in favor to “none of the above”-safest to play by my own rules under these circumstances. To think that this scenario is to some degree, in our hands, is naive to say the least. Why? Because life happens.

Four days ago I was ‘diagnosed’ with sudden loss of auditory senses, literally deaf in my right ear. I woke to my right ear underwater, confused, but rooted in a state of  calmness. As the days passed, it only got worse. Trains whipping by, screeching whistles, television channels straining to tune, droning hum. Fear trickled into my presence; something wasn’t right. After a series of sound tests in a telephone booth gone pilot arrangement, the doc discloses “you’ve lost 80% hearing in your right eat.” Cue tears. I am 27 and legally deaf.

Swimming my way about these last days have been a mysterious blessing, frankly, guiding me through acquiring more commentary than the average person on the standard ear plug than I would ever have expected to gain. “I became deaf at the age of twelve,” said Phil, as we connected over mutual deafness at the market Saturday morning. He shared his plight of becoming deaf, showcasing his hearing aid, leaving me in high regards of his hearing contraption, “if I am on the market for one myself.”  Witnessing friends adapting their efforts, candidly,  to situate themselves on my “good side,” all the while being cognizant of noise levels in whatever environment we found ourselves  for their ninety-year old, ear plugged, Morghan. I have connected and had conversations with people never pondered, “my father has a hearing aid but prefers to keep it out-it’s too overstimulating to him to have it in now,”  bathed in stories of beloveds alike, opening my eyes to functioning in reality of this handicap.

I feel blessed.

Leaving my right brains in a constant state of meditation , my left, blundering through the world, overstimulated and shocked by all experienced in one day,  in one moment. I’ve been forced to go inside, a 24 hour mediation if you will, navigating the inner trappings of my existence. Here I have found peace, contentment, silence, love. It is if I have arrived home, tossing my shoes off, and kicking back into the billowing fluff, that adorn this space. I find myself opting to plug up my other ear, yearning for solitude within my own being, whilst functioning in this life.

After ten days logged with 80% hearing loss, she came knocking at my door, graciously, I let her in. Sensitive, delayed, static, gray, muddled, weak. The light has shone at the end of this tunnel. The fear and confusion that gripped so tightly washed away like ocean waves tickling the shore line, it seems paradoxical that delight wouldn’t be the overshadowing emotion. An intruder, stealing me out of my meditation, these sounds foreign languages to my new land.

Blind or deaf? I choose none of the above. I’ve walked a few miles in the latter shoe, gaining a peace and experience I had no control over, never welcomed either. I have emerged in wake of heightened understanding, compassion, and love. I have walked a few miles in this shoe, but it’s sole is worn, tattered.


 It’s job here is done.

That one time I was supposed to be productive...oh wait...

You get old.

You start thinking too “inside the box. 

-----------------------------------

Friends, family, your dog...they’ll all judge the shit out of everything you’re doing. You don’t come home ONE night and the first speculation is that you’re having a mid life crisis. So then the cycle begins. You tell yourself you should be more mature, more organized, and no, the dog cannot (unfortunately, damnit) cross his legs and hold his wee for the morning…or the next twelve days.

-----------------------------------

The ideals of our squared society speak in high esteem of hitching up in a relationship after you’ve gotten that golden ticket of a job-but wait, you have a zillion and a half dollars to pay off your college debt, so therefore, you’re just acquiring a title of “massively in debt marketing person.” Good job.

Really. Great job...

Now you’ve got the relationship, the debt and the title. What’s next? Obviously you’re going to look for a place because you can sense a wedding proposal nearing (frankly, all your friends are doing it so DUH you’re next).  

------------------------------------

You find a place. 

Post to Facebook now you own some silly house and half of North America “likes” your status. You feel successful and a broad grin takes over your face. Somewhere in there you get proposed to. That shit is posted everywhere, so don't fret, the world knows what's up. Someone probably tape recorded it as they were trying to document their child taking their first steps, but don't worry, you didn't fuck it up. You're more important than a first step. Haha.

-----------------------------------

So then you become boring and have to plan the shit out of everything. you. do. Get a notebook. Your typical "talkings" are centered around the price of toilet paper and buying a new couch that’s just a bit too big to fit into your main doorway. That conversation goes on for far fucking too long. Just get a different couch or smash your door down. Easy. 

Wait, is this turning into an article of how I will never grow up and become this human, a lame ass square, or is this about lack of spontaneity. Now I’ve even got myself confused! Oh man.

***Alert: I'm not being a dick or judgmental. Do not take this personally. If you are a square, I'm sorry. If you are living this life, congrats. I don't hate you. 

Why Timing is Bullshit.

Usually it’s because I’m always too late. Because I am never present enough to realize that the only such time we can take advantage of anything is in this moment. This moment. When frankly, most of the time, I am not present because I’m too busy in another time, another moment, thinking about what I am missing or what else I should be doing because if timing is everything then damnit, I need to be there too. I need to make sure that I am in all of the places so to not miss beat for when the right time comes along, I can be ‘oh so present. ‘

Alas I’ve missed all the moments. Every time. The present, the past, future. What is this moment? What is the notion of “being present” anyhow? Isn’t is all just ideals put in place so we can keep ourselves organized, sans spontaneity, boxed into some sort of safe zone of control  in a world that is a cluster of a...

i like your brain

i love when unexpected meetings happen

when life throws you a curve ball

and you have to dig deep, with your strongest shovel 

into the stubborn roots of your soul

to flip that frown upside down

and open your heart, warding off 

soldier after soldier that showed up

fully armed

i have never been more fluent 

in the dancing that unfolds in that space 

in the gap between connect and disconnect

this is not to say that it has become my first language

as it is far from that

and only when i can actually catch myself

flowing it it's dance

can i tell you what i've been told 

in the space that is created when humans 

come together in a space where

one like mind can become nsync with the other

through the electrical currents of brain waves, 

glittering lights, flashing up and down 

a mysterious corridor

where the words 'i like your brain' can be 

uttered into the grey area of a connection

where masks, and armor are truly a sell out

where the heart stamps itself on sleeves 

abiding in vulnerability

it's in this gap where the soul soars high

healing itself through understanding 

sans expections of any return on investment

where "i understand you" is enough 

to bring you to your knees

perhaps forever

it's in this space 

where i have learnt a new language

that i can truly say "i like your brain"

dare me to further say, 

we are riding one single wave

i believe.

i believe in crazy
i believe in doing everything which i'm told not

i believe in what doesn't make sense
i believe in the darkness that comes with the light

i believe in the rawness of feelings
i believe in telling all but listening to none

i believe in taking chances, risks, leaps
i believe in connection

i believe that we create our world, every thought, word, day
i believe that the only crazy is what is not done, for fear, or flight

i believe that in this one life, we shouldn't think about tomorrow
i believe in the mysterious trust in letting go to allow for the greater flow

i believe in today and that feeling that makes no sense
i believe that you should listen to your inner guidance, your wisdom

i believe in being crazy today, following feelings, darkness and flow
because if tomorrow never comes, then how else will i know?

this life.

When did I even have time to come back to you lately? To sit here and to think. To stare into your peaks and dips, and wait until the next rip tide flows over my skin?

No time.

I’ve found myself in the shackles of too much, more, seeking, wanting, pushing, and not honoring my own sacred temple. Not resting and enjoy all of the intuition and beauty that I have inside of me. I find that when I take the time to let it shine it GLOWS out of me, through every pour of my being.

The things that I seemingly find in the breaks of my being, hidden far away in the darkest corners only come when it is safe and quiet enough to become vulnerable.

What is this tug of war with joy, connection and slinkling away into the shadows? I’ve finally found the magnifying glass to assess these tendencies through. It’s as though I don’t want anyone too close to be able to feel joy. But is that real? There is the flip side of that that is allowing people to have all of my time, all of my quiet and all of my words. That’s not right either. Yes, when saying yes you will always have an enjoyable time if you change your attitude to say that ‘whatever my decision may be, I will be ok with the outcome.’ I am not trying to get anywhere, just enjoying the journey-to some degree of it.

Mines a struggle in the giving, patience, the waiting, the organizing, the planning, the vulnerability, the being scared to make a decision so I sit and I wait and then anxiety and feelings of emptiness, unfulfillment take decisions place. I have been here before, each and every one of these places has seen my face before. we have said hello and been courteous to one another even though the anger that is bubbling up inside of me could nix their existence. Why am I back? What things haven’t I sorted that need sorting?

All.

Being busy for busy sake, not finding my creative quiet time, always having to listen to the clock and be somewhere-for someone or something. never saying no. feeling bad when I do say no so I sit in angst until I finally tire and sleep takes over my fragile body.

Do I run because I cannot deal with the pressures of being present, having to show up and connecting to the world around me? Is it all too much? I feel like I’m going to break, often, then my strength picks me back up. Can’t you just let me crumble like the last cookie in the sleeve? At least it would still taste sweet.

So I find you in the shadows, in the moments when nothing else seemed to work out, or did it? does joy make me feel out of control? Does it spin me in a way that only a child understands freedom, love, laughter, and lighteness? Does that scare me? Is it too hard to handle? Where do you compartmentalize something of such?

Press play and you’ll see the orchestra of life take their seats, the bells and whistles in line as the ducks are forced into a line because somebody somewhere heard that that’s how they like to be-have we ever asked them how they fancy arrangements?

Then you’ll grow old, teathered and grey, your skin soft, worn down from love and light dancing upon the ballroom of your cheeks and brow. You did it all right, the stories you tell, from tears to joy to a life lived full. When you tell me this, I see something else, there’s this sparkle, the twinkle, or is it a tear? As I see you scan back through tht efiles of your mind, what didn’t you do? What did you not say when you needed to say it most? If you would have stepped into your own path, what would the webs you weaved looked like?

I know you won’t say, these things that I see when I look into your eyes, as I drown on your river, that runs ever so deep. So hold back, just like you have, for the years have passed, you’ll say through tears. “I have to be thankful, for those that I had, I can’t ask for more, who do I expect I am?”

The things that I see, that not a one of them will say, hides deep in my soul, the cracks and the  folds, for it is only when I take the time to be with you, that it feels safe enough to peak out for one fresh gulp of salty filled ocean air.