I haven’t done anything all day. I’ve read, and journaled, and wrote poetry. I slept til noon, although the alarm kept going off, starting at ten. I feel fine, but that’s probably because I’ve chosen to ignore all other present problems.
Sometimes I wonder if all this in my brain is typical—do people think the things I do?
Surely I’m not the only one. We all think of order and chaos, of love and beauty, of truth and deceit, of emotions and life and tragedy; of death and beyond, of the colors and the sky, songs and words and art, of things that lift our heads from the ground like budding plants to breathe something fresh, something organic and real, authentic—given to us by the world herself. Lovely and genuine mother nature, naturally we suck at her teet with fervor, sucking her dry and latching our lips to the next source of sustenance.
But to what degree? how deep do we dive? how long can we hold our breath underneath this weight?
I’ll inhale deeply and swim like I’m soaring, release bubbles like stories, messengers frozen in a sphere, like a snowglobe shaken, stirred to life, then pop! when exposed, but encapsulated in time, for a moment, just a moment, then pop! explodes! released into the air… but still there?
Depends on how you see.
Why do I write like this? Am I genuine? Have I been reading too much? (No, reading isn’t bad, never bad.) Where do I plan to go? What do I hope to accomplish? I’m not sure. I feel as anxious as a caged horse in an open field, pawing and braying at the ground. Unsure, unwilling, unnerved and pacing, swaying my head and snorting—but my natural instinct is to join the land, like a proper horse should!
I like my words. I read them and need them, and turn them over like stones, but I toss them in my room away from people.
Is this a trend? am I authentic? is anything? It’s hard to tell these days.
There are so many influences. But a lot of choices mean variables and variables, like a long math problem. There could be hundreds—thousands—of options. This red shirt and blue shirt with these pants, those pants, the other pants.
Red this, red that, red other, blue this, blue that, blue other.
A million combinations! Like atoms forming together over a thousand years. The building blocks form towers, the chain builds the cosmos, and words, letters, twenty-six shapes in one language can form a multitude of things. Tell the same story in a million different ways!
To do this, to shape these letters like patterns on my life, emotion and experience is exciting. A challenge I readily accept like a sailor with dreams of the sea. Yes, my dream! To throw words over the world like linen, shaping it, making sense of it. I’ll shake my head and give no explanation. It’s not mine to decide, to shape, to make sense. My sense is no sense, and certainly not anybody else’s.
But I’ll throw words like my shawl at the feet of a great lord approaching.
“My Lady!” I’ll cry. “Life, She approaches.”
I do not figure my words will go far. Life and Her Merry Parade will trample over my token, and I’ll pick it up, bring it to my face and say, “She touched it! Oh Life, She touched it!”
I’ll hang it above my bed and count the thread like sheep, and they’ll pop! explode! when they reach the surface, lose form when confronted, like the sphere breaks when it reaches air.
I won’t stop blowing. I won’t stop breathing.
Regardless of where they end up, who sees them, recognizes them and says, “that’s her words, her breath!” when they breathe it in, and for a moment, entwined, together, then out, forward, to be joined or swished away.
Who knows where the air blows or where it goes it if it stays.

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