Tread Lightly, Enter At Your Own Discretion (This thing is a mess)

What of the world in my head right now?
What of the ability and struggle to arrange and rearrange words to imitate and represent things no word was ever born from? What of the tangled mess that is any one thought, tied up in everything else dwelling in mind, body and heart?

--However, A paragraph composed entirely of questions is not fun to read, no matter whether or not if I intend to answer them--

But the thought, the idea, floaty as it may be, --flighty as my writing is-- but the knotted thread and pathway of every concept, including god. The inability to vilify or angelicize anything altogether or entirely. This, in my mind, at least, makes it difficult to communicate effectively or confidently. Or even, I suppose, to make decisions.
Catching yourself in your ego-trapping, then writing that sentence and kind of mentally tripping. A shrug of shoulders and we move on, not to take anyone entirely at any one thing said.
What is life going to be like? Every year learning you knew nothing? Continually afraid, but watching for the day fear no longer comes knocking, but perhaps afraid even of that moment? (I'm really not as paralyzed by fear as I sound sometimes, I write more of my fear than of my courage.)

Look at us, finding ourselves every where. Resolving and falling and resolving again, self-conscious. Wondering if there is a place for our voice, flawed and inarticulate, though still beautiful, amongst all of those other voices, similar or not.


I sit here and pick myself apart, lay it all out in the air around me, suspended in reds and purples and whites. Constructing a world around myself, hopefully, but still not finding it altogether to my liking, and at the same time, feeling overwhelmed by what I perceive as the "outside world". Being terribly afraid of a god separate from me who would direct me where I don't want to go, though I say god is everywhere, in everyone, including at the heart of me.
I cannot see everything, but I would say that god sees everything. Even as this lends me trust and some form of faith, it opens all sorts of new intimidating doors, and trust ebbs away.
Not knowing the future, not knowing what will happen, but trying so hard to figure out how. Looking for when, straining to open my eyes, to see things clearly, and then blinding myself from (repetitious use of the word, but whatever) fear of what may be. Trying to know but not knowing and cringing at the prospect and offering of knowledge.
I once heard tell of a poem comparing communication, friendship, and love to two people flashing each other back and forth, lifting and peeling away clothing experimentally, weighing the other person's reactions. Rather ingenious, I'd say.
But that begs the question; why not just be soul and heart and personality-naked from the get go? Honestly though, even if we got past that particular affection, it still takes time to peel the skin away, for hearts to become familiar.

***

I've never attempted to articulate all of this before. None of it is concrete, all of it is a towering, flickering column or cylinder of fire. I have a thousand hands, and on each of them sits a small person, their own hands (more than just two) raised to eternity, mouths open and speaking in tongues on serene or animated faces. I don't know if anything will ever be black and white to me, even as I search so hard for the "right" path.

To break and comment for a moment: This page is not just white, it is flaming in so many colors, tangled with lush living leaves and bone and sinew. And back to the dance;

But bah, It is all in my own head, and who am I to influence the eyes and hearts of others? This is nothing but a page, with not even the barest trace of my fingerprints upon it.
What could it possibly retain of me? I suppose, however, that is the purpose of myth and story and metaphor; to put one's own personal stamp upon words strung together in infinite and impersonal combinations. What is the point of striving for that, though? Why should it matter?
I feel like I myself am fluid and blank, but I'm sure that too is untrue. Even as I so "modestly" back down from uniqueness, I am everywhere; I remember that in some way -on one of those hands- I am only here, therefore nowhere therefore both nothing and no less than everything. Monotone.
Have I lost you yet?
I am trying to leave a trail, but I don't know if it followable, for I created it and in creating it, I follow invisible trails of mind where I neglected to drop breadcrumb, ergo that does not mean it is in any way sensible to another person.

If I can be so many flavors, hypothetically so many people, does that mean I am nobody? Or a new kind of self? But that too is presumptuous. Guessing and theorizing and second-guessing and cross-referencing and doing it all far too shoddily in almost the only way I know how. But life is like cake, there is more than one way to bake cake, and more than one way to live life. There is an infinity of components and combinations to both. That, I suppose, is why I figure I can go about creating my life on my own, and it will, hopefully, be a better fit than the institutionalized, industrialized version of life. The one problem with this is I can see --if not all, a great many different possibilities, and it is difficult to drop my star-struck eyes back to the path ahead and choose, or just walk on.



Yes, this thing is a mess, but somehow I like it all the same.
What of the world in my head? What of it? This is the closest I've ever come (In one piece of writing, at one time of being) to mapping it all out.

Criss Cross and Peering Intently: Talking To Myself And You

I.
Do you think I could tease you out of your corner, my dear?
Take your hand and coax you from the wall.
But maybe I don't even see that as it truly is,
    maybe it's not a corner, but a whole other world,
    different and not so different from mine.
Perhaps you like everything just as it is.

II.
I want to reach deep into the universe,
    --my arm plunged in up to my shoulder,
and pull the heart of it into sight.
I halfway suspect it would also be my heart,
    your heart,
their heart.

In theory, I am the adventurous type,
In theory I want to get out, to go far, far away.
And then maybe I will come back, and I will find what I am looking for
    Right here,
Where it has always been.

III.
I yelled down the stairs, deep and loud,
    and in the silence left alone afterward,
    a string on my guitar rang in reply,
    and I smiled and laughed and said hello
before flying away.

And so it is that I always find these things again, and they are different,
    I am different;
With a firefly
Blinking in my heart
    and guitar dust shining golden on my fingers,
in my soul. 

Because I want to, nothing more

Everything I feel lately makes my heart a shape that doesn't fit inside me anymore, and this, in turn makes my body a shape that doesn't fit to the edges of life. 

I'm sorry, little brother, but I'm not all here lately. To be honest, there's a part of me missing, and it walks the world somewhere else. It was taken from me piece by piece, but I gave it all willingly. 

I keep anchoring myself to things beyond my control, and this is never good because when nothing works out, I am lost. 

It's just, I don't really feel like anything matters lately, not my emotions or wants or feelings, and this applies to the outside world and other people to an extent. It's like I just can't care, but that's not true because I really do care and that's why I'm so sad right now, and why everything that happened yesterday affected me so much even though I tried not to let it because nothing matters; The leak in the gallery, the crabby lady, the blithe and standoffish musicians. But it's not like I see anything truly, it's not like I judged anything correctly. And my eyesight is especially cloudy and fractured lately. And there was some good stuff to balance out the hurtful. 

It's true, I'm my biggest bully. And I really don't know how to stop. 

It's hard to say stuff to other people out loud, because when you put something in another person, maybe it can't change. But I guess that's operating on the belief that other people are stagnant manikins. I don't know, sometimes I forget that other people are real, but maybe they don't often give me a reason to believe they are. But that's not true either, that's looking at one facet on the stone of life and experience and forgetting all other sides. I can't look at or remember every single side all of the time though, because it feels like I only live one after the other, like there can be no two together. 

I don't want to be in my head anymore. I don't really want to exist anymore, but this too should not be taken seriously because I think of it in a transitory sense, I don't consider nonexistence to be a permanent state.