This morning I wrote this, thinking of myself. If I could make anything better, for me. If I could create a romance with my mediocrity maybe then my words would mean something- at least to me, at least in my head. And so I lied in bed imagining the beginning of today if I were in a romantic novel and something really profound and unexpected were about to happen.
“An opulent gray covered the land. Softened by a silvery mist everything slept as if under a spell. She sat in a room upstairs looking down at the valley. Horses stood as still as trees and a secret wind that did not blow filled her heart with a wild silence. She watched the place she found herself with a far off look in her eyes. The ocean was not far away and in many ways the night still wept deep into these early morning hours. The lulling sound of distant waves held a confusing power yet she would not be swept away. She would be quiet. She would be more quiet and still than the new world around her. She would not dream of death as if it were her lover. There would be peace, somehow within her virulent body. This was her chance to disappear and reappear at will. Nobody would need to know her and she would not have to speak. She would float as a ghost vivid, over a place that meant nothing to her. She thought these things very precisely as she sat looking down at what seemed merely an echo designed to ensnare her. However, she had grown wise and nothing could stop her. “This is actually the beginning,” she thought toward the sheer trace of moon…morning could hear me and I knew it.”
Because I felt this when the end seems to be inevitably stuck on me, there was a slight rising from within, a hidden sunlight that warmed me inside my cold isolation. These memories of the past will not go, I must consider tomorrow, as today is another bardo where I am hunted by shadows hiding in corners I didn’t even know were there. I have been thinking about what I want. I want my words to matter. Most of all, more than anything I want my words to open wounds that won’t heal and skies that are closed. By clouds that should have left long ago. And these painful shroudings I find do best to disguise themselves in expectations. Not my own but those of others upon me. Love, in this place seems to be defined by the meeting of others expectations. And I have always known this isn’t love, but I have assumed my role and tried to ignore the tearing of layers. One by one of me and all those I have embodied. The past, it catches up and becomes a fresh past recreating the same wretched loss. You lose yourself in what they all wanted, expected. Then they disappear and you are just a nothing. Floating looking for a new job. A new candidate to ease the angst that you have made some fatal mistakes and sold your blood to the lowest bidder. I am talking to me. This is what I want. I say again to the legion of shadows that read me, the waves can’t always pull. There are the tides and these tides are turning. That is what I wrote this dark early morning. While Legend, curled on the edge of the bed, softly tugged at my heart. He talks in his sleep without knowing it. Sometimes he gets up still sleeping and searches for the big black snake. Last night I found out that a bright gun was being held in his face by an anonymous hand. I hear him because I sleep very lightly. He was saying, “oh shit, oh shit.” That’s when I found out someone was about to pull the trigger. So anyway, I can see that there are many shadows and mirrors – mostly mocking the dead. That there is probably nothing else but that – and the knocking. I write the words when I hear the knocking. The far away call from the biggest ocean mirror. There was a day when I would have called that my soul or even God. But honestly, now I am not sure. I pass the time just doing my best collaborating with the chaos. This would mean keeping notes of my daily responsibilities and listening to the forces as they reckon from within. You see, I know there is something big. Super huge going on inside and nobody needs to know. No one does, it’s just appearing as a lesser me. Slipping, sliding downward as all aging human women do. Especially women forced to lean on a man. Because I was raised in a cult that did not allow higher education, I was married at seventeen. It was my only way out. I do carry a curse and I cannot blame my parents for this. I like to think I am in control and that would include prior to my birth. Meaning yes, I chose this particular prison to decorate with my beautiful descriptions and impersonations of pain. Because the cult believed the earth would be destroyed any day and going to college would be as if you were not faithful to that reality. I was told God could read my heart and since I was only pretending to love the God I was taught about, I was terrified of being struck down at any moment. College was therefore one of the last things on my mind. Sex was. And that was one of the main reasons I knew I’d be struck, I was a slut like my mother had called me. Though a virgin my thoughts were impure. I was not thinking of the heavenly paradise or Jesus. I was thinking of boys and a warmer reachable love, or so I thought. Funny how the joke is always on me. So I pretended and didn’t realize how deep that pretending went. But for the knocking that told me what I didn’t know but held deep in the recesses of my psyche- but for the spreading of saddened legs, finally. Then the words sprung to life and began flowing all straight to you, whoever you are. I only know one thing. You aren’t that much different than me. And we all need a new morning that hears us and we all need to feel the urchin of rapturous love filling our bodies. This isn’t a dream but a requirement. I feel alone. Because the world has forgotten who we are. And I know it’s inside of me. That’s why I say the outside often must be destroyed to see what’s been seething inside these walls. And I thought about my choices just now – I chose the word seething for a reason. There is a fire inside that does matter. That is why I write this and why the outside should validate my actions. Any day now. This heart we hold and ignore. This heart we push onto others to heal makes a good point. This world one way or another, whether you like it or not – will show you who you are. This is both a paradox and a riddle. It is the saddest crime of all, truly. Committed by who? God in the making or just us striving to not be afraid? Anymore, of the loneliness and blackest of bruises. Don’t hurt me, but first hurt me so I know I’m hurt. Already. We came as injured warrior lambs, don’t you see? Sharada Devi