I don’t want to have a blind self, but I stare in the white light every day. The spectrum of who I could be spans indistinguishable lengths.. It is freeing in many ways too. Its not all bad. No one holds me accountable to be great except me. I get all the glory. I get all the pains. Promises made with intent to kept, yet never followed through on can teach you how not to want anything you can’t do autonomously. “Don’t ever get involved with someone who wasn’t loved as a child.” I remember hearing my college professor give us this advice during a sociology class studying the systemic roots of structural violence from health, housing, legal problems, mental health issues, poverty, and physical violence. She was so focused on the oppressor-oppressed dynamic of racial and economic injustice she overlooked her contradiction; Systemic roots of violence stem from shame and shame can affect anyone The symptoms of silence can camouflage into a fragile resilience, one that ebbs and flows like a detached past in which every thread of unnecessary connection has been scorched to the point of invisibility. Denial of one’s memory regarding past experiences and the emotions that arose prior, during, and afterwards can compartmentalize a person’s identity. The shame of sublimation can unconsciously drive the even the most “resilient” into the depths of self-doubt because reality, while consciously acknowledged has been consciously ignored down to all controllable actions. Regardless of one’s adaptability, if a person driven by honest, and perhaps, ignorance of intentions would inevitability realize that forcibly believing that the past exists and must be seen as separate and yet the past is unspeakably, unthinkably inconsequential are contradictory if internalized simultaneously. A fractured identity feels exacting in its parts and yet mismatched in its wholeness.
The distortion of selectively deciding who you will be as an adult before you even have an understanding of what it means to be a child forces one into a an identity that is more or less just an accumulation of defining oneself by their coping mechanisms which overly prioritize all cognitive functions related to autonomy and ignore all the truth in experience before any rationalization to survive has taken hold. Happiness in a life without others is not enough. Intrinsic motivation permeates forcefully without real direction. Balance of unity and connection with all people allows us to engage in empathy. Empathy is a result of being open to the idea that differing perspections and their paired evaluation by a person can be truly correct, satisfactory, purposeful, worth paying attention to, having depth and totally disagreeable compared to our perspective. We occupy our own lives and then the world. A childhood in which a child survives and doesn’t thrive must have some kind of benefit to society because we are making use of tools available to us. To truly survive what others may never even acknowledges is an okay thing to believe about oneself. Its only to find solace in thriving in spite of war. The confusion of war can leave wounds that slowly kill you if left untreated. Feeling real empathy for others is only possible if we can balance others needs and our own fairly and with equanimity.
I began to think of all the ways everyone I knew and saw everyday in all different situations that called for one separate part of their identity to become the focus of whom each embodied and casted on to the present moment. I began to imagine all the ways in which the time they were actually spending, putting directed effort into some area of their life--in excess-- was individually trapped. I envisioned becoming a nun, or how it may feel to live forever. With awareness that extended only minute to minute without plans or foresight. I couldn’t weigh out what values were most important and I struggled to accept that the biggest challenge was balance. It easy to be weak, so why do people say vulnerability is accepting weakness as strength to persevere? Self-acceptance maybe is why. Accepting failure as inevitable.
When I Stand for You, I Stand for Me.
A tear staggered from my lash to a resting place parallel to high point of my cheek. “Don’t we just love the drama?” I thought as a reread the two act break-up letter I had compiled over the course of 5 months. The duration of feeling was simultaneous to the number of my waking hours sometime around the brink of summer to the second week of November—a little over a week before Thanksgiving. The break-up letters were written on two separate occasions: the first time I accepted his dumping me and the first time I accepted I needed to break-up with him. It wasn’t a coincidence that they were composed in a journal I apparently only use for extreme emotional blood-letting. Finding them was incidental, as it was convenient, for when I ripped out the chunk of jagged pages of scribbled inscriptions to pass off as a farewell gift— the kind that keeps on giving— the receiver a memory that keeps certain feelings conscious, I looked down to find another thing to present.
The second letter read more like a introduction written by a stranger for a collection of poetry published posthumously. I knew handing over the obscure stanza littered one was less revealing if concealed with the second as if it was some sort of prologue. It gave enough context to hide my self-indulgence in the whole charade. Though every fleeting injury still stung in a million new ways every day. I couldn’t help but remind myself that the heart breaks infinitely. And eventually it will yield to even the slightest fracture. The question of when and why being uncertain, the answer was definite: the inevitable imperfection of life weakens all other parts in the whole eventually. I interjected my own reverie with another—the remembering that he had shrewdly refused to read the letters. His need to control was like moisture in the air. Everyone had to breathe, taste, and sometimes, like now, see it.
As I begin to replay his rejection over in my head, an obsessional desire to locate the letters and reread them filled me. I wanted to peruse them to the point of scrutiny. I needed to find the exact moment, perhaps a wrongly placed possessive pronoun or misplaced modifier, where I could confirm his doubts for him. I was imperfect and demanded to showcase it through a series of lame prose. My unseen arrogance was embarrassing. No one would feel pity for this. Even I didn’t. My self-pity arose from constantly needing to lick my wounds of unmet emotional needs that had become sores as this point. My coping skills were so infected with dysfunction that their functions contorted into useless defense mechanisms.
My eyes dampened with controlled release. I could feel my mind conspiring in some pre-linguistic communication system of nerves and chemicals. My whole self was debating whether or not it was worth the cry that I had thrown the letters away. My control disarmed itself against the abrupt interruption of a more painful memory: it was because I had begun visiting my childhood home. This sort of trip down memory land was one I began like a soldier that trained for efficient denial against an insufferable disgust. The shame was legion. Every inch closer to this secret bunker felt like I was stepping foot onto a untouched crime scene whose decrepitness made me feel what I had suffered was worse than I imagined and multiplying with evidence.
Nothing and no one would escape imprisonment to our humanity. Some days these ties to survival were so bountiful. Today they were. Days chugged along and I bounced with the motion of time’s constant effort. Reminding myself my own banal mortality and incongruent struggle. I felted heckled as my body ascertained a new reason to cry. I imagined myself to an outsider in this very moment that unless observed would likely be made unreal and therefore unintegrated into my ‘self’ that functions with the rest of the world. I wept because this was real me. And no one would ever know. I felt embarrassed a second time as I wanted to be adored for my inherently basic and dependent ugliness. This would be an uphill battle. Solitude was my own prison.
A few days before I penned my final goodbye, I awoke from a dream in which I was forced against by will to survive to live in my grandmother’s house again because I had lost my apartment, car, and even my job. Every body part I had was overcome by fleas eating me alive starting at my feet like a black hole consuming me from the ground below me. And as a I tried to save myself and swallow the defeat of failure, my screams for assistance and begs were met with the stark reality that the fleas were truly eating me alive. Dumbfounded, my grandmother stood there and told me it was my fault that I couldn’t get them off. They were everywhere and there was nothing she could do as this point. My brain could not even consider the itchiness from all the parasites grazing on my extremities. Each bite pinched in tandem to the others until my limps were pulsating with their own heartbeat. Their biology rendered them and their host codependent. The finest illustrative example of inescapable pain of childhood abuse and the force that drives it to be repeated. Two hearts that enable one another to beat in sync to each other’s brokenness.
This is the place I learned how not to want. My docket was filled with infractions of excusing people’s behavior and creating internal discord because I struggle to publicly disagree with others if my real self feels confused with fleeting opinions, and worse complementary or completely oppositional. Constantly putting myself in the position of everyones most trusted alliance. Picking up on everything they think, do, believe, and analyzing until I know exactly how to win them over and make them feel they’ve found the most relatable, yet normal and independent person ever. A real “potential” good friend. I struggle to remind myself that personality doesn’t have to be reliable and that perfection doesn’t cure shame.
Fri, Feb. 5th, 2016, 05:19 am
I could condense every emotion to a small fragment,
each one isolated like a single grain of sand,
I carried handfuls before you in attempts to make them whole
each crash of the tide like a time stamp on my current state
I extend with hopes of salvation
while I grasp on to the nothingness that is dissolving.
Your only intervention comes in a echo,
but I can't recall what octave
your voice fell into or how you said it
while I watched the remains float through my mind
like the dead wood of a once valiant ship
I stared until you neared the shore
of every last thought I had.
I can't recall when you escaped
into the figments of my imagination
perhaps when the barriers seemed like a horizon
and the reverb of your voice was miles away
a weather beaten image crumbled on the outskirts
of what is, and what was
I reconstructed it all like your words were a lifeboat
And you destroyed my sand castles with gravity alone
my kingdom is in my hands, before you
there was nothing, there was nothing left
I can recall you saying in the unfamiliar tone
"This will take everything you have."
And it did.
Fri, Feb. 5th, 2016, 05:17 am
I have come alive again. I am not exhumed, just reborn. The negative emotions at times crawl up inside me and rot my insides, but I found passion is the cure. I will not be swayed again by the contagiousness of self-depracation. I am happy even if it means redefining happiness to fit my current state.
Integrate values rather than polarizing them.
My consciousness feels like it's melting lately and the harder I grip, the faster I notice it's falling through my fingers. At least I notice still. I'm not entirely a puddle.
Calm like a duck.
Not everything needs to be expressed lexically if it can be done behaviorally.
We do often repurpose youthful idealizations by injecting them into something practical. But I think this only happens because we've misplaced the truth that it's okay to have the thrill of dreams for the sake of it..And if we're especially lucky, we'll rediscover the steps of our former selves before the "colonization of reality" on our childish minds..
The high cost of social subordination is high stress which is a cumulative burden.
I thought you ran like a river through my depths. I got the signals confused, one might say, when I confused the grey of your eyes with the monochrome of the clouds above me. I guess, this could also mean, you were too blind to realize if you were existing with me though. However close the sun seemed that day, it was too far to realize and however far it seemed, it still burned unintentionally. In paradise, I sought sun kissed daydreams to waltz in tune to my former fantasy's steps. And on the shore, inspiration washed up. But the music stopped, the thoughts collapsed. And the sun beat on, it's rays burned on. And we were no longer floating in rhythm to an intimate idea.
I captured the moment in my mind,
but time hasn't elapsed enough
for me to finger every crevice in my conscious.
So I can only pray, when your hands meet me
your smile is the focal point of my every thought.
I can't bear to trace another syllable
along the edges of my mouth.
It's a narrow path to sound out the roar.
I'll encase them in a signal
where you feel the goosebumps read,
"Embrace me, please."
Wed, Jan. 7th, 2015, 12:58 am
And nobody knows us - we are strangers.
Sun, Nov. 30th, 2014, 02:35 am
Your words weren't a compass?
You're right, I shouldn't have taken such a literal approach,
like giving words to meaning, and believing what will be said.
The rhetorical questions weren't directions were they?
You don't have to answer that.
because your step by step instructions failed any way.
for I can't remember what octave your voice fell into.
Looking back, I'll blame this miscommunication on reverberation.
And claim I took mine own approach,
like dividing events and memories as my first step to
piecing together this atlas like a puzzle.
It's not hard to lose your place,
when you don't know where you are,
Is seeing believing?
You don't have to answer that.
Because these heat waves seem disguised as dead ends.
I should stop looking for signs now,
because I'm running out of blame.
And my truth is too blurry..
And I've caught myself staring into the sun too many times.
and my vision meets the horizon, I always look in the rearview,
so unwillingly, this must be a force.
I don't want to play the blame game with the universe again,
for playing tricks on me,
but can reality be such a subjective confabulation?
You don't have to answer that.
The moon escapes every trace of you,
then your shadows stop growing when you set on me once again.
You must be the sun when you decide night and day.
And give me grand illusions like rainbows and silhouettes.
I've gone to the ends of the earth to prove this.
like chasing love down the highway, if I have to,
which I've had to.
Can one wrong turn leave someone so stranded?
That was a rhetorical question.
Sun, Nov. 23rd, 2014, 01:43 am
there are mornings
where the possibilities felt
are the essence of my being.
the future must exist
i believe it to be
but the past is an entity
that bears no relevance
to my beliefs
it is a shadow i cast
on everything i near.
a symbioc figure
that lives inside
when i wake
a crevice is between us
a descent from which
i cant stray
(As we smiled), our lips parted
every angle peered in on my body
(As we laughed), a new perspective rotated
oscillating above & between what it was
to be looking here and gazing at a tangible eternity.
Discovery served itself as it would in a dream,
(As you leaned in) the fission of reality and anomalies
appeared like a crawl space hidden to lazy eyes,
leading to the only miracle I could ever need.
Do you think the elements conspire
so that we could become one?
That was a rhetorical question.
you can't escape the pa st.
you can't escape the pa in.
Sat, Nov. 22nd, 2014, 09:29 pm
most habits occur
because of laziness
because our friends do
because our parents think
we need more flesh
on the bones
and perhaps my worst habit
and like most who live
i will be broken
by my unwillingness
to control my feelings
Mon, Nov. 17th, 2014, 11:41 pm
Reality is a reflection of the self. Reality is the subjective object to one's objective perspective. I control the way in which I experience the world.
Sun, Oct. 5th, 2014, 12:52 am
I can no longer convince myself of that which I don't believe. That was the last coherent decision I remember making. From then on, everything was just a piece into the puzzle, a symbol for the framework, just another translation begging to be understood- but such things are inexplicably impossible when they're too far to conceptualize. Perhaps I was projecting, or worse I was foreseeing something. My milestones are like a conceptual scene in a film where there are no words, just metaphors to visual. So, I closed my eyes, inhaled, exhaled and hovered above the present moment inside my transparent casket.
Opposites give us a basis to make sense of it all, now and then, here and now. How naive and innocent, I was when I first considered life outside of me, my moment of conception, the birth of now. This is where every melody is born and every poem is dug up from it's roots only to find in doing so we destroy its only lifeline. Exposing oneself is a sacrifice. It means severing my lifeline to my separate life; it means solidifying that it is in fact separate. Sharing who I am, means losing who I am. A confession is a gift.
The daunting claustrophobia has set in despite no cause for such symptoms. I look around and the vacant eyes peer through me from every direction. I felt as if I was holding on to a secret I could use to blackmail the world. The narrator of my unconscious would yell, "pause!" and I could escape, but how could I even get to that point when there is so much to extrapolate before this is an emergency. I hadn't chosen these words, this story- none of it at all. It was like a dog wagging it's tail on the way to be euthanized. I hadn't become the catalyst for this being against my will. I had been condensed, yet again, in a way where on lookers could never agree- I was trapped in a haiku. Frantically, I shook my head to let the notions fall out. It was boundless externally, but lost in a rapture of traps and mazes. I had been here before in silence. In contrast, somewhere in those former reflections there had been at least a glimmer of resolve. Appraising their execrable eyes, I looked at my reflection- I had succumbed to delusion.
I thought back to each recent crippling interaction, realizing how no one can truly know anyone else. Any attempt only leads to more dissonance ultimately pushing souls apart. I don’t want to try anymore, only to feel myself helplessly drowning millions of gallons of misunderstanding, while spilling blood in this tank of sharks. They say you say too little, and then when you say more - its all the wrong things. I will say the bare minimum, just enough to cultivate a mystery, and deny them any more. I have nothing to offer anyone beyond that. No one has anything to offer me but diplomatic immunity for safe passages. I don’t want to interact. I only want to observe safely from behind my glass case. People are quicksand- absorbing, suffocating, and yet separate from my being. The urge to atrophy the obvious and dig for it's roots was the only piercing sensation in my body.