the value of reflections
i once believed that censorship was isolationist and slightly hegemonic. to an extent i still believe that but more so, i believe in my need to be private. i miss writing--i truly do; the flow of words from my mind radio-ing to my fingertips. the mix and matching jambalaya that was once so...so immature (to say the least).
I grew up with two doors facing the same direction in a room that was all too white for my taste. A room that was all too childish, too square, too open, too...[enter blank adjective here]. And in this room that I grew to love, hate and everything else in between, I stared at the mirror that was my window. At times I would gaze down the street to see what I was missing, other times I'd longingly count the flowing cherry blossom petals that would gently glide through the wind. In moments of convenience I'd disapprovingly glance at my naked body as I dressed for whatever occasion. And in quiet moments of desperation I removed the window all together--the screen, which kept out the flying creatures that so easily frightened me into a corner. I would remove this reflection and it would act as another door. I tossed one leg over and kept the other 'on call' and I meant to admire the moon romantically, but was blinded by the streetlight that was just across the way.
there isn't much more to this recollection of reflections that I once held on to so tightly. there isn't much more to this than the slight shame I left in that room. the repugnant odor that won't go away.
but to some avail, i like it that way.
I suppose at the end of the day--or the end of the road, whichever is to come sooner--all i have are my thoughts or my words. My words that won't have meaning, my words that once were thoughts. I used to believe that expressing them was some kind of betrayal to my self and to those that I loved. but now--but now. i don't know anymore. I still question this before I enter the unconscious world: are the choices I made today the choices that will better the world, water my soul and/or fuel my passion for tomorrow? But then I suppose the larger question lies in: does it matter?
I saw a large woman cry the other night. Cry for a soul unfortunately lost and her sadness stemmed from losing "such an amazing observer." In my selfish jealousy I wondered if a large woman that had vaguely known me, if she would cry for the loss of me.
I believe that people can make a difference and I believe that one action is catalyst to another, but I am still torn in the between figuring what I want in the world of necessity and what I am in the currents of existence. Do the actions of our decisions translate to the world in which they are performed? Or are they the rehearsed lines of our genetic scripts?
I miss writing, I really do.
I miss writing because it helps me through
the moments at which the division
between 'real' and 'fake', genuine and perfidious,
is just a line in the sand.
I miss writing, I truly do.
I wonder how...
I wander to...
perhaps some time, some day
I will find my way.
I grew up with two doors facing the same direction in a room that was all too white for my taste. A room that was all too childish, too square, too open, too...[enter blank adjective here]. And in this room that I grew to love, hate and everything else in between, I stared at the mirror that was my window. At times I would gaze down the street to see what I was missing, other times I'd longingly count the flowing cherry blossom petals that would gently glide through the wind. In moments of convenience I'd disapprovingly glance at my naked body as I dressed for whatever occasion. And in quiet moments of desperation I removed the window all together--the screen, which kept out the flying creatures that so easily frightened me into a corner. I would remove this reflection and it would act as another door. I tossed one leg over and kept the other 'on call' and I meant to admire the moon romantically, but was blinded by the streetlight that was just across the way.
there isn't much more to this recollection of reflections that I once held on to so tightly. there isn't much more to this than the slight shame I left in that room. the repugnant odor that won't go away.
but to some avail, i like it that way.
I suppose at the end of the day--or the end of the road, whichever is to come sooner--all i have are my thoughts or my words. My words that won't have meaning, my words that once were thoughts. I used to believe that expressing them was some kind of betrayal to my self and to those that I loved. but now--but now. i don't know anymore. I still question this before I enter the unconscious world: are the choices I made today the choices that will better the world, water my soul and/or fuel my passion for tomorrow? But then I suppose the larger question lies in: does it matter?
I saw a large woman cry the other night. Cry for a soul unfortunately lost and her sadness stemmed from losing "such an amazing observer." In my selfish jealousy I wondered if a large woman that had vaguely known me, if she would cry for the loss of me.
I believe that people can make a difference and I believe that one action is catalyst to another, but I am still torn in the between figuring what I want in the world of necessity and what I am in the currents of existence. Do the actions of our decisions translate to the world in which they are performed? Or are they the rehearsed lines of our genetic scripts?
I miss writing, I really do.
I miss writing because it helps me through
the moments at which the division
between 'real' and 'fake', genuine and perfidious,
is just a line in the sand.
I miss writing, I truly do.
I wonder how...
I wander to...
perhaps some time, some day
I will find my way.