(no subject)
I am at quiet with myself. And yes, I did have to announce that to the world. I feel . . . ephemeral. I feel light and weightless and pure. I am untouched and untouchable. I am me and only me- not more or less. My soul hangs in perfect homeostasis and I drift. A pure sweet note rings through me and I am set apart, seeing everything as if from great distance, viewing all through the eyes of an impartial judge. Pain, anger, hurt but also passion and joy have disconnected and I look on. Some would say I am not myself truly untouched by emotion, but I know that I am more truly myself without emotion to cloud my mind. My mind is in a word remarkable, telling me what I would be feeling, should be feeling now, were I able even as cold hard reason tells me the most logical path. thus I may calculate the perfect choice. My mind is my defense mechanism when I am like this, protecting me from scrutiny, from scorn and from disdain. Whatsoever happens to me my mind immediately realizes the correct response and before I know it I'm acting out the furious, or hurt, or touched me that I should have been. Its not a conscious choice, rather an instinct. They say your mind protects you and so it would seem.
I wonder dispassionately if there is something wrong with me. This isn't normal I know. It is beyond the comprehension of most I have learned. What am I? Who am I really? the questions echo, echo, echo through my hollow self, haunting me while waking and while sleeping.
who am i
who am i
who am i
who am i??
The question is unrelenting, unrepetetant and unending as it undulates into the very pattern of my breath. in (who) out (am i?). I live it, I breathe it, I dream it. Ever and ever and on and on it whispers through me; a chillingly unanswerable query from my mind to my soul. And as always the emptiness has taken its tole. I am weary, I am old silk, once so colorful, now I am washed out to ghostly gossamer white trailing through the currents of life. I will meander to my room, lie on the bed and sigh with the weight of the years I havent lived. I pull my grey-white swirl quilt, old and soft from too many washings, just as worn with time as me, all the way up to my chin. I tuck it under and around my entire body, creating a cocoon of drowsy drift-away-on-a-cloud warmth. I slowly, so slowly slip into the welcoming dark and it cradles me like a baby in the arms it doesnt have, holding me safe till I favor this world once more. Until come that time I rest in warmth and gentle quiet, taking what is without within, becoming the peace until that is all I am. No longer me or anything at all, just the softest warmth and the deepest quiet, that is all I am.