Wearing a New Story, y'know, so many tones. All one has to do is pick, and write blind-sided

Hullo little one.
Perhaps this will be a letter of sorts? I began writing an essay before opening up a new draft. I got so far as to write two or three sentences but quickly gave it up as too complex a subject which also had no supporting evidence.

Should a letter contain a subject? Or at least a theme all throughout to bind the writing together into a whole, neatly tied at the end? I'm not entirely sure. Sometimes I'll just write everything, or a great deal of what is on my mind, and I'll find it leads itself back to the beginning, all neatly drawn together with no conscious effort on my part. I haven't done that in forever. I guess I lost my muse for a time, though that might be a melodramatic statement. Deep breath...
Anyway, I guess Summer is drawing near, if it is the passing of time you wish to hear about, an account of days; perhaps an account of the firsts of the season. I got my first significant sunburn planting my garden last Sunday. The work was good, the sunburn, not so much. It lingers on longer than I expected it to, but then, nothing seems to be exactly as I expect it to be; the lilacs, love; they smell a hundred times better than I remember them smelling. If only I could wear a perfume of lilacs... It wouldn't even have to be all year 'round...
Like I said, Summer is drawing near, the days grow long and hot, and the heads of the foxtail begin to dry out and flake apart. Bad news for me, I'm working a job weeding several blocks down the road, and foxtails are easier to pull out and keep contained when they are still green and supple.
The ground is drying out, muted colors creeping from the dirt up through the stalks of unwatered plants, the wide strip of weeds between our fence and the road turning brown and crunching underneath bare feet. Storks Bill curling onto itself while Cheat Grass drops its head-full of long seeds to the dust. The stream rages, dirty dun-colored, racing onwards to the North; snowmelt slipping away from our little valley to cities and towns beyond.
These are the things one notices as a product of being raised in the desert by parents anxious for the future, and empathetic to the living cycle all around. And there, I suppose, is my subject.
Yours,
Amoniel

Namaste y mae govannen to every and all

• Beauty in everyday life, spontaneous and immediate. If you wait, it will always come, heartbreaking and eye-opening. I am always a little bit less blind than I was before. 
• Yo, my best friend and love.
• My lovely, still growing family.
• Every single one of my siblings, adopted, blood, and soul-relatives.
• All of my friends, which usually translates into siblings.
• Fantastic food and teamwork.
• Snow.
• Music, musicians, and musical instruments. Also, the music of the natural world in all senses.
• Memory. 
• Writing.
• Doctor Who, in all of it's complexity and simplicity, intertwined duality. Funny, beautiful, heartbreaking.
• Enlightenment and transcendence, the unattainable, ever-won quest and weave. 
• Emotion and expression, creativity and god.
• Skin.
• The space between the ears, all at once infinite and perfectly encapsulated. 
• Life, always

Letters Blog: May 4th, 2011. Wednesday

Another letter to Yo

Dear Yo,

You've become a sort of confidante 

in my mind.
You don't really talk back, and I 

probably wouldn't talk to you in 

real life like
I do in my mind, but who knows? 

Maybe this is just practice.
I've been very open to you in 

our person-to-person correspondence,
I'm generally very closemouthed 

and afraid of what people will think of
what I say.
Perhaps the conversations 

(more like monologues) I have

with you in
my mind will allow me to feel 

comfortable to really talk with 

you, and
perhaps with other people as well.

I wonder what you would think if 

I were ever to tell you all of this, or
if you were to come across this 

letter. Would you even recognize
this as being written to you?

You know, there are all these 

rather abnormal questions I want to
ask people, though I doubt I 

will ask most of them.
I want to ask you what you 

honestly think of me, what 

you think of
what I have to say, and what 

you thought of me when we were
first introduced.
I wonder if there are any questions 

you want to ask me. I would
answer them truthfully, I think I 

generally do.
In a strange way, I trust and 

relate to you as a sort of kindred
spirit from what I know of you, 

and what you have told me.
I won't say that I haven't found 

many kindred spirits in my life,
I've found quite a few, and most 

of them became my best friends,
If only for a time.
the thing about kindred spirits 

is they don't stay that way for long.
Would you remain a sensed 

kindred if I were to get to know 

you more,
or am I just projecting? It 

doesn't seem that way to me, 

but I don't know.

Would you be scared of me, 

or who I am, if you were to 

get to know me
better? I see myself as a very 

strange and abnormal person 

inside and
out. I don't really know if anyone 

else thinks that. But judging from
Sixbillionsecrets, most people 

think they're completely alone in their
fears and insecurities. Everyone 

thinks they're the weirdest person
around.

I had a whole other paragraph 

here, but it digresses from the rest of
the letter, it has no point, so 

I'll just forget about it.

Thank you for all of you've

unconsciously and indirectly taught me.
Thank you for reading this letter, 

and thank you for being you.
love,
Amoniel

Stream of Consciousness: A response to personal knots untangled and Amanda Palmer's "The Art of Asking"

I am closed, but all the people I admire are open.
In my happiest, greatest dreams, I am open.

I am masked and cloaked and closely guarded.
I keep then all out, so why do I so badly want them in, why do I hope they'll let me in?

The things I want most to be, I keep in myself, away from others.
My heart is giving, my soul is tender, but I keep them draped in watchful distrust, not the blackest or heaviest of shrouds, but very interfering in the filtering of light from within and without.
I want to give, but to protect myself from potential harshness from others, I beat them to the punch and make myself feel bad first, even though they had no such intent themselves. I was not raised to be anything but my most authentic, honest self, I was never told that anything about me was anything but beautiful or multifaceted, and none of my friends have really stuck around long enough or been the kind of person to tell me anything of the sort. And yet, here it all is; the shroud, cloak and mask, the stinging barbs of "What you are you should not be" and "Nobody should/could/will ever like or love you".

But it is all lies, the voice that said I need all of this, the need for all of this, this in and of itself.
The Art Of Asking: it's okay to ask, it's okay to be open.
By asking, you are at your most vulnerable, your most earnest and authentic; your most open.
It is great, overflowing, boundless joy, and people respond to that on a very deep level, I respond to that on a very deep level.

Something will probably always be there (though I'm not going to over look the possibility that it won't), the worm-tongue whispering to the light of my being, "Hide. That is the only way to safety. Stay closed." But that voice is wrong; we get from others what we give, and I want the world to be as bright as I sometimes feel always.

The Ten Things I'm Grateful For This Thanksgiving

1My family
2The Gs, Dreamer and Kathryn, Raven, and Sea eyes
3God
4Discovering the song in my heart
5My progress
6Orson Scott Card
7Love
8Writing
9Travel
10You, my love, you.