When you walk a lot in the woods, when you take a lot of photos in the woods, you develop a sixth sense (perhaps it is an unrealized sound, a scent in the wind or something larger, a fourth dimension sensation perhaps) that there is something ahead, an animal, a bird, something out of the ordinary.
Today, as I headed down a steep portion of the trail, my body involuntarily slowed down, grew quiet, deliberate, cautious.
When I came to the bottom, the clearing, there was this:
1. How do the thousands of spiders that crawl up and down my cells appear so fast? The weight, every voice becomes another creature of a hysteria based affliction. Even in the dark, like a twig you didn’t snap, whiplash from the shock but even a soothing voice feels just like a lie.
2. What does it feel like to hold long and fast a sound mind. To grip the bouy through even the worst monsoons, shake yourself off, wag your tail, and do it again. I still get up with all teeth showing but my sockets are empty and face gaunt and white, waterlogged with salt pouring from my wounds.
3. How can the spring not lift you high, everyone shines around you pink with the new pearly moon and you still sit, sectioned off with winter still on your shoulders, sucking yourself in afraid of the inevitable absence of light, it’s still months away.
What makes me, me? I have short light brown hair. I wear pretty normal clothes. My face could easily get lost in a crowd. That begs the question; what makes me, me? My height used to set me apart from the crowd, now I’m average. Maybe my like for depressing things makes me stand out. Or maybe my bad posture? My big nose perhaps? Is it the way I trust too quickly? Maybe I’m set apart from the crowd because I’m too quiet, or too obnoxious. I think it’s due to the fact that I’m too much to handle. I’m either all in or all out. My mood can change from happy to insane in a span of minutes. I haven’t always been this way. It just kind of happened. There is no off switch, I’ve found. Maybe I’m different because I have no off switch… Or maybe because I speculate too much, this being solid proof.
the blue bird sings at the top of his lungs, and I wonder if he ever tires or gets bored or realizes that his constant tweeting is pointless. the golden retriever trots along his daily route, attached to a short red leash. I wonder if he ever resents that short red leash for straining him when he simply wants to be free. the man travels back and forth to work everyday; an everlasting routine. he becomes exhausted and bored and resents his choices and his life/ I wonder if he will ever try to end this seemingly never ending routine. I sure hope so...
sometimes i get upset. everyone does. sometimes my emotions get all complicated-- angry at myself, guilty of something i don't even know what, scared on some existential level. sad i can deal with sad i even sometimes like. it's all these other things. my thoughts start racing and i start shutting them down. you'd be amazed how fast i can think and how much faster i can judge. these thoughts start racing around my head and i can't say what i feel because i can't finish experiencing a feeling without trivializing it peeling it away. some corner of my mind watches from a distance detched and reasonable and utterly inaccessible. it's worse when i can talk to someone-- when i'm supposed to have words, supposed to make sense. better when i'm alone and i can turn my music up loud and wait for the storm to pass.
Look around. Look around at Our world today. Tell me what you see: Do you see peace And freedom, from sea to shining sea?
Open your ears. Open your ears And hearts To those in need, Whether in our country, Your country, Or countries far away. After all, everyone says they believe We're all equal. Then how come we're treated so Differently?
Somewhere far away, There is a Land of lights Calling to me. Oh NYC, A city of the freed With artists and Factories And never dark Movie screens. Air thick with smog And Unkind words; Billionaires, bankers Choking on their own success, Heirs, or heiresses if you will, Clinging to boats of checks Above the balances, And Turmoil of the Screaming tide. Oh NYC, How you call to me Despite the hate And claustrophobic street stores, Painting everyone differently In the press, twisting The half-sung truth To pass as advertisements And propoganda. Everything carries a different meaning To everyone, and Everyone sallies forth to Hold their own, but What I see In NYC, What it means to me, An outsider from a Free state of green (in the same country) Is a world of opportunity,
My older brother, my rock. The athletic one, the businessman, the strong, and smart one. Tall and skinny, an envy to many, he walks through life with the just the right amount of confidence. In many ways, I have looked up to him for my whole life. He is witty, a people person. A magician with words. He pulls ideas out of his head and spins them like a web. He works his way around a mess with such ease and grace, you’d think that he's a dancer. He lives in the eye of a hurricane. Disaster and chaos twirling around him, but where he goes, a calmness follows. When he leaves, and before he arrives, is when the rain hits, the wind starts beating against your skin, bringing tears to your face with the harshness of the truth when he reveals it to you. He is a closed book, lock thrown away, and not to be searched for. With questions, come no answers when he is involved. I see my mother's hair turning grey, and her eyes growing old as she sits, waits, tries to be a part of his life.
my internal landscape changes every time the weather grows colder. it's been true for years-- fall sets in, cold weather, long pants, all those lovely jackets. changing leaves mean groans about the inevitable onset of the leafpeepers. and emotionally, i... flatten. my mind hones in on something-- my writing, someone else's story, anything to keep me interested. i called it a cycle of obsession when i was younger and in its clutches looking out and knowing how preposterous i was but powerless to stop it. i love the cold. snow is beautiful, and i like sunrises, so waking up at a time when i'm able to witness them should be a good sign. it comes upon me slowly, enough that i never notice until winter is here and everything is grey and i am clinical and deep within obsession. i only notice
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