I wear the expression of silly. Silly is who I seem to be. Yet also sweet, serious, curious compassionate, frightfully untamable and even filled with rage. A great woman who enjoys the deepest parts of how to feel. I’ve climbed to the depths of where emotions are born. Maybe that seems passionate and driven for a purpose to fulfill. Or maybe it seems scared, afraid to numb the parts that make me human, if I haven’t done that already. I understand the aspect of neutrality. It’s powerful, balanced and holds the wisest understanding. A woman standing in all of her power. It would be the healthiest and most uplifting way to lead her life- lead life with her fellow people and the two children at her side.
I crave the understanding of pain, of happiness and the way a person thinks. To play out their emotions as they experience them, embracing all aspects of the human consciousness, our human day to day lives. I pierce the veil where delusion lies to pull the fellow friend out from the ashes. I love the suffering as if it were my own. I crave to feel the life we live, and maybe it’s because I don’t know how to live my own. I hold a torch to draw moth to the flame, and when they ask me where I stand my response always lies, with them. Maybe I’m afraid to be this person, as real as life ever is for all of us.
“Don’t worry about me.” A woman with rods stacked on her back, to feel the reality she lacks. Maybe I’m afraid of power, a rippling fear of eternal life’s spring in my gut. A fear of being brave enough to grip the staff that wields my magic and hold all of my self up, to face the treacherous and magnificent life we all endure.
I always craved the roots that others bear. They wear their badges to show their individuality no matter what the cost. And they own their choice no matter where their morals lie, they honor who they are. Even if who they are is always changing, perfecting old badges and adding some new ones throughout their time. Always owning up to the journey of the unfoldment in their lives.
I feel the clock of our time here click, it ticks along as skin grows thin. As the wrinkles tell of life that fades and so much more to understand. But as the tables turn, as they always do and spin around, they move to destinations where mystery is always met and found with every emotion I crave to feel. But precise measure of the clock that ticks, it is mine- the staff I’ve laden in your hands for almost all my life.
Reality seems so treacherous- the logic and reasoning of the inevitable “fate and demise,” but sadly of what I, what we’ve created. What I’d give to feel that staff and I intertwined. Let this insanity be mine. It makes the most sense, and I, my world with me, are mine. I twirl and sing along, my “wicked” song with the wind, a crazy, blasphemous tale I spin. But I seek to find the answers that are always there in plain sight, readily there and always told. Ready, if I let them in.