Reflection

And the walls 

closing in

as she drowns

in her own vast sins

of the father, mother

sister, brother

do they judge her?

or is it her minds' reaction

to, the faction

of masses

how they exist

and she is fixed

on this idea

of self affliction.

Her wounded soul

contorted

based on feelings

uncontrollable

she lies in

a vacant state

at the screen

before her

it's there

stories of

all the others

to her life

she will compare

and sit 

in remorse

and self woe, strikes

to herself she is

the foe

'let it go!' she shouts

internally;

but the truth comes hard

to 

the lonely

minded

trapt in a 

transparent cage

like a maze

her thoughts stream

rapidly by

can she catch one?

no......

not this time.

A thought on real love

It's nice to have someone, some body to see all your insecurities, take them in their hands and kiss them, softly.  To support them with their love and compassion.  Those little quirks that make you, you; often are trouble for most, challenging, annoying.  For the right kind of person, for the person, those things are special - sometimes mildly annoying - but they make you, you.  So that person loves you for all the rough edges, the squiggly lines, all imperfections and insecurities - the whole being that is you.

When you can do the same for that person.....that, my friend, is real, unconditional love.

So you wanna be a writer, eh?  You think you have what it takes?  The diligence to pursue a dream career that may never come to fruition, the drive to continue after endless rejections, the criticism and negative feedback, haunting blocks to the brain that cloud your desires, just to get those last few words out.  What are those words?  They're there, at the tip of your tongue, waiting to be written, spoken in a whisper, through your fingers as you type.  But it's hard to get them out sometimes, see, it's tough to find those words, it's tough to know what to say.  You're your own worst critic, they tell you.  So many of them, family and friends.  Reach for the stars, go for what you want, take your dreams and make them a reality.  You have too many dreams, maybe?  Too many ideas pop in and out all day.  It's like a fucking auction of thoughts, but it's being orated by a goldfish; nonsense, ramblings.  But they do make sense, to you...

So, begin.  Write your blog, like you're doing right now.  Create your story, fill the pages with tales of golden futures.  A place where all the good stuff happens.  The other universe sitting beside you, within you.  It's yours.  So take it.

Playing with stream of consciousness writing, or memories

This is very old, something from several years ago.

My earliest memory: Building a snowman with my sister and brother, my mother standing at the sliding glass door.  I also think I saw Uncle Keith there, but maybe not.  I don’t remember climbing stairs as a babe, but I can imagine what it must have been like.  Seated on my legs, I stair up at the flight of steps, were they covered with carpet, grayish blue maybe?  I put my tiny right hand on the first step, you can see my diaper under my long top, or maybe it’s a dress.  I can’t see myself climbing them beyond that first reach. 

I remember Mary Poppins and Lamb chops and playing with my magnets.  I used to build places and the little dots, the red and blue, were boys and girls.  I remember the boys would always chase the girls, and I always chose one of each to be the main characters.  I’m not sure how I kept them straight but it seems I almost always did.  I think sometimes I would mess them up when mom came by.  Like it was wrong of me to play such a game.  I got embarrassed.  I remember, I think, mine and Carl’s last bath together.  Maybe it was the chicken pox or something.  We had all our toys, well mostly his.  GI Jo and such.  I used to love playing GI Jo and trolls with him.  I always wanted to be like him.  Well, as far as I could.  I always looked up to him.  He was so smart and cool.  Emily had to play my mother, how could I look up to her.  I don’t remember when Dad left I just know he left.  My first memory of a phone conversation with him: I was maybe seven, or maybe it was just after he left.  I didn’t want to use the phone I just wanted to play.  I had just gotten my boots, the boyish kind, Timberlands or something.  I remember how excited I was.  I was trying to tie them maybe when he called and I had to talk to him.  Mom made me even though I said I didn’t feel like it.  It didn’t faze me then.  That my daddy had left.  I just thought how much this conversation had interfered with my playtime.  I remember the car ride with grandma and grandpa.  I fell asleep in grandmas’ lap in the back seat.  It sounds silly but that’s my fondest memory of her.  She was so caring then, she said, “If you’re sleepy just lay down here and go to sleep.” So I did, it was nice.  After that she became the crazy grandma.  My mother told me that she asked a doctor if I had been sexually abused.  I stuck my blanket up my nose; I just thought it felt nice.  Kids stick things up their nose.  I’m not sure it means anything except a strange fixation.  Freud would probably say its normal.  The only thing Freud was good for, he helped us understand child behaviors.  I remember having a crush on Lauren D.’s big brother.  I think he was the second oldest.  He was so cute, I guess.  I was only 8 or 9 so what did I know.  I remember when Lauren wanted to see me naked, or at least be in the room when I changed my clothes.  I thought she was a weirdo then, now I know she was just curious because I was older then her.  She was just curious.  Or maybe she was just kidding around.  I remember the dirt mounds.  We played on them and pretended to be on some kind of adventure.  We were always pretending.  I forget sometimes how imaginative I was.  My sister made me a Barbie extravaganza in our room once.  She took all my Barbie’s and hers and made little sections.  There was a house on our dresser and maybe a beach or something.  I don’t remember all of it, just that it covered our desk and dresser and the floor.  She always takes care of me.  I suppose I somewhat returned the favor with this trip, not sure I ever fully could though.  At some point you know you’re not like other families or that you’re not like other kids.  I thought about things a lot.  Just everyday things.  I seemed like such a quiet kid, people used to tell me.  On the inside it was never quiet.  My mind was always rolling from one subject to another or one idea to the next.  I used to dwell on things a lot.  I guess I still do. 

This is something I wrote back in June 2014.  It feels right, so I'm sharing.

Someone to save me, for a change.  Someone to love and accept me as me, wholeheartedly.  Someone that does not necessarily like all of my quirks, but accepts them as is; and that, when I do something stupid, they don’t roll their eyes and ridicule me.  Or if they do roll their eyes, they do it with a smile and give me a kiss - and I feel that love.  Someone that I can be myself around - my multitude of selves.  Someone that can mellow out my crazy, or meet it equally.  That is gentle and compassionate, and strong when in need.  When I need a shoulder they are open and comforting.  We can laugh together, and be quiet.  We can look into each other’s eyes for long periods of time - with or without laughter.  We can be creative together in whatever form.  I just want an honest love, a real love.

Untitled

Why are we so elite?  From other beings, like we serve a greater purpose.  Like we would actually outlive them all (yeah right).  How did we become so disconnected?  As if we can't feel her pain, as she weeps softly.  Sometimes loudly; thunderous clouds, tsunamis and great storms, fires that consume the old and the new.  Beautiful chaos, a cleansing.  She is vast and wise beyond our comprehension.  We are lowly and so young, so stupid.  So much to learn about her and the encompassing universe.  Her playground, her home, her space amongst the celestial gods; it a space we meekly fill, a tiny speck within an infinite, everlasting womb.  We are so lucky to experience it all.  If only that understanding reigned within all humans.  Let go of your pitiful selfish thoughts and behaviors.  Before it's too late.  Is it too late?  Have we reached the point of no return, the floodgates are destined to open?  I hope not.  That would be terribly sad.

love vs. greed, a thought

All we have is love, a pivotal emotion, to bring us true joy.  Can greed be deemed as a moment of true joy?  All a matter of perspective, I suppose.  It doesn't feel right, the righteous would think.  Greed can bring pain and hatred, seemingly terrible states of being.  The moment you feel love, is... like floating, like the smell of spring, fresh rain and a baby's skin.  All those precious pieces of time, experiences that we hold onto in our minds, stow them away in the memory banks of our mortal brains.

Greed seems to end in heartbreak, in death, often alone.  Does it not take more effort to be sharing and giving, then to hoard and be greedy?  Take more of ourselves, our spirits?  It's easy to keep everything to yourself, to be alone and pretend to not need.  It's far more challenging to let people in, to be open to love, compassion, and to give these in return, to share with others.  Yes?