Purple

Sadness is coloured purple. The purple is soft like velvet and silvery, and it hangs heavy there. I find it with my eyes, find there the weight of it, the feel of it, the way it breathes. I see it in his blue eyes, they stare, and I am there. Reflect me yet again, I am reborn in pain within those staring eyes. And I am gone when they close and look away, to stare, for he turns inward to his own mind and sees yet another version of me, the one which ticks mechanical, which speaks a color over my parts and makes and unmakes me. I am segregated within myself within his mind behind his eyes. I am apart, yet whole in outline, only in outline, and the rest of me pools into colored segments which only make sense to him.

I sense purple within my own mind’s eyes, when I close my eyes and think of him on the off chance. I see his purple shirt which he wore today, and I see the way all the times I have seen him before coalesce into the single being I imagine him to be. I see the way purple colours the scene, the whole scene, separate and apart a thing then coloured, separate and apart a thing we see. The purple rather is my mind’s interpretation of a sense which makes none, and is feather-light, and oft and almost imaginary.

He asks me questions and don’t ask me what was said, or what he asked, or my answer for I don’t remember. In fact I forgot even as he said it. I forgot before he said it. I forgot timeless ages ago. I never know, and when he asks and I answer I see I make no sense and neither does he, for we speak the same language but hear different meanings, and I am forever stuck in translation, in inability. He asks and I try, but my mind merely scatters in a million directions all desperate to run away, and when I latch on to something solid he bats it away, from me, and I am scattered once again.

It is like a cage, this room, but not for my body, or my sense of freedom, or my mind. It is like a cage for my fear. Let it run itself out inside here, let it exhaust itself chasing its own tail and howling at the moon; the invisible, elusive, ephemeral moon, lazy and unchanged, illusion, disillusion, personified. It is like a place for my fear to exist in the here-time, and I am lost within the storm of What-Is-But-Never-Manifests, until it fills this cage with it’s trembling carriage and oscillates wildly inside my mind. My mind separates, and I am purple, and I am the storm, and I am, I become them, the separate parts of me. And I am all I was, there, at that point I’m time. And he directs me, behind his eyes, directs and pigeon holes me, neat little boxes in which parts of me reach out between slammed lids. And I am purple no more, once again I am me and we are me and he and I am free. I breathe.

I feel the purple calm as we draw to a close, the purple dissipates into ether and then dream, the silence fills with reality, the space it once was fills with noise and emotions more real than the ones which are. And I fall back to myself, back to the one I want to be, a nice kind generous me, which offers comfort that I would have myself but is never for me. And then I leave and I am safe again.

This perspective

I stand alone.

Whitewash the world
reflects back a blank canvas,
And I paint the vibration
of my thoughts upon it.

My thoughts create
the people and the grass, 
the sky and the gravity, 
the hunger and the sadness,
the ultimate whine of emotion. 

My thoughts create my fears, 
intense and longing, 
wide-eyed and full, 
brilliant and decadent. 

My thoughts create
and I am unmade and lost in them
for they consume me, 
mountains pile on me stretching into infinity
for every want ever desired and not, 
every decision done and discarded, 
every possibility sits upon me, 
weightless until the weight of all of them crush me
slowly in the illusion of their reality. 

And I am unmade and become them,
so buried beneath myself created ideations
I am relegated to ideation itself, 
and my thoughts create more of me, 
all in aid of trying to find me.

And thus I am unmade. 

Light,  however,  glimmers periodically. 

The people I created with thought
walk and talk
with will of their own, 
as if their holographic construction
evolved into actual sentience, 
and I interact until I perceive them as the reality. 

And then I love and hate them, 
worry and coddle them, 
feel the persecution of them,
until I am buffed by their own thought forms
and I am further unmade.

Then light gleams, a single clear ray. 

I fall in love, 
and she is so bright
inside my closed eyes,

the lightness fills my soul
and it shines out my chest, 
between my breasts, 
and I am momentarily whole. 
For a moment I am
unburdened
by the infinite mountain
of thought debris. 

And I shine, 
and I glow, 
and I absolutely expand
into a feeling of airiness. 
I feel as if I were light and air.  For a moment.

For a moment. 

She is there, 
just not here, 
here she is dense,  a creation,
and one that hurts even as it
brightens me,  inspires me.
She looks like a creation of this world, 
and I see her with open eyes
And thorny flaws
and skin so precious a color I want to weep at the sight of it
for it is so precious to me. 

I enjoy her smile, 
bask in the light it throws, 
and I revel in each and every
gentle gesture she makes
towards me. 

And I am undone.  I unravel, 
I literally unwind all the ropes of
pain and anguish
each infinite whim and thought
conjured to bind me, 
and it feels like falling, 
but I am mere whittled away, 
for a moment at a time,
into what I was, 
until my creation overpowered me.

And that is how you see heaven I think, 
see past the illusion,
see beyond your own minds expression, 
and glimpse the other side. 
Glimpse the next realm, 
another reality,  the other world. 
The other’s world. 

I felt God when I I looked upon her, 
eyes wide open and tightly shut,  and. . . 

. . .   And I think for a moment she saw me,
from her own world,
from beneath her own infinite mountain, 
from her own living grave,  I think she saw me. 

And I was with her in some timeless place for a time.
Until we let the thought forms
back in and they distracted us
into separation. 

The world is whitewashed
beneath the paint and
peeling paper and
splattered beginnings,
heeded endings. 
The world is empty
and I mask the emptiness
with imagination painted like
so much acrylic scree
stuck to the thing. 

And the people are just people, 
extensions of me only
as they are mine mind
come to life. 

Until I saw one and chose to see, 
loved one and chose to disclose.
Until I opened my eyes to
the illusion of the mountain, 
so infinite
and heavy
and imaginary.

Too Small and Separate a Drop in the Uinverse

I have been struggling with my weight.

Not just to lose it, but as if in physical altercation, locked and straining to wrestle it into what I want it to be. I have been struggling WITH my weight, as if it were another person I must contend with. A very contrary person who exists just to torment me and hold me back.

I have used spiritual means to exact the desired end. I have meditated, chanted, done spirit journeys and tarot readings. I have delved into my painful childhood and held the bereaved child me. I have acknowledged the weight as my assistant, my protector, my body’s way of speaking to me, as pain held in my body unhealed. I have done it all, in aid of losing this creature who makes me not as I feel myself to be but as a grotesque caricature of myself. I have done it all because I want that creature gone.

Yesterday I was on the train. The subway car window across from me was darkened by the tunnels we traveled through and alas the creature that is my weight was very visible. I was horrified. My arms were the worst of it. My hips the next glaring thing.

And I couldn’t help but feel the disorientation.

In my dreams, my mind, my astral wanderings I am not that girl. Am myself and I am … Normal. Not overly thin, or too thick for my aesthetic preference, but normal. I stared at her, this imposter of me, and just felt defeat. And then a man skinnier than me took up that spot and I felt even worse, seeing the reflection of me out shadowing even him.

Once, a while ago, a girl took me into the bathroom and told me to stare into the mirror. This was before my spiritual journey and she was intense and alarmingly so. It didn’t turn out well between us, I wasn’t ready I don’t think, but she and that incident still affects me today.

She said I was to stare in the mirror and tell myself I loved me.

Tell my reflection I love her.

Tell that … Thing in the mirror I love you.

Then, I couldn’t do it. I tried but there were too many distractions, too much going on. And I wasn’t near ready. I do recall the trembling. It made me tremble to imagine doing, before I even tried, this trembling feeling deep inside in the core of me. And when I tried it was with half hearted effort, and less understanding than I hold now. And when I looked into my reflection’s face, her eyes turned sad and she looked more child-like than ever. And I felt such .. Disgust. As if in her vulnerability she was akin to dirty and should be rejected.

That girl who forced me to do that, I ran as far away from her as I could get.

Ironically her name was Angel.

But that in incident in my head stands out so strongly. I feel as if sometimes a part of me lives in that bathroom, a public one with women rushing in and out and staring, and my ex/girlfriend huffing jealous over the girl in question. And the girl, Angel too close to my arm, insistent in word and will, that I see something. Something in the mirror. Something in me.

Since then I have tried in on my own, in private, by myself. It took a long time to work up the courage, its been 18 months since that day. I have stared at myself in the mirror and tried to see what she saw, 3 times. Every time I feel the same. As I look at her, the girl in the mirror who is my reflection, there is this pulling in her eyes. She wants so desperately to be loved, it is a literal drag on my energy to feed her. I feel drained looking into her eyes. She is so .. Bruised by life. And her pain begins to become mine. And I feel such anger at her for being so weak I just hate her. And invariably I give up and leave trying to forget why.

She is not me. She isn’t. Myself from this vantage point looking out is so beautiful. And I do love her. And I know myself so much better than I did then. And I feel so whole inside. The dichotomy is this shell I wear, this body, this weight, this reflection in the mirror. She feels so alien. So separate. So apart from me. Looking into the mirror feels as far away from understanding her as looking at a picture and trying to know that person from it. I feel disconnected when I look in the mirror.

But I must acknowledge a few things. The first being a truth I believe in. That what I believe is reflected in my reality. And the second being I feel the First Noble Truth of Buddhism applies here, somehow.

There is suffering. Suffering should be understood.

I really feel the second insight is key but I have tried to understand it. I have tried. I simply don’t. Understanding it, in this way as done by Buddhists, is to embrace it. Welcome it. Become it.

My pain is so great I feel it would overwhelm me were I to become it. I fear I would be lost.

It helps to imagine another as the source of attention. I would say another person, whose size is equal to mine, is starving. They are so hungry all they can do is eat. And the food piles up on their body but does not feed what is really hungry inside. I think it is their spirit which is the hungry one.

I remember being younger and always feeling hungry. This was long after I had rejected feeling hungry physically and made sure I wouldn’t feel my stomach sour and growling ever. Then the feeling of hunger moved, and became an internal thing. It became not a physical sensation this hunger but a felt thing like emotion. Indeed it feels like a pulling sensation. I have felt it often throughout my life I now see: For things. For people. For love. For sex. For change.

My mind expands with this insight. Feeding is not just about food, although I admit this idea is what sparked my turning vegetarian years ago as well as my spiritual path. We eat to become more than we are. Food fuels us, but so does poetry. Stories. Love. Laughter. Happiness. Joy. Fear even, just go see a scary movie and you’ll see yourself react in one way or the other. We are fueled by so many things. We hunger for so much.

Right now my main hunger is aesthetics. I am putting a lot of time in my physical appearance, mainly my hair. I hunger to make myself look beautiful. I am beautiful I acknowledge but these days I want to look a certain way. A way that feels more like myself. It is almost similar to this struggle with weight. I want my insides and outsides to match. I want them to match and be beautiful, beautiful to me that is. I hunger so much to look a certain way.

It makes me wonder if that is how a transgender person feels? So hungry for their shell to match their soul.

I buy things which feel like me. Make me feel even more like myself. I read things that do this as well. I am attracted to people who make me feel more like me. I feed myself all these things in aid of … What? Is it expansion? Connection. Do I feel too small and separate a drop in the universe that I must reach for reintegration? What exactly is it I am so god damn hungry for?

Is it god?

And if it is, well I believe I am god, we all are. That god and universe and people are one. If it is god I am hungry for, how can I really feed myself me?

If it is god I am hungry for, must I wait until this corporal existence ends to be free and whole again?

Even Source Would Suffice

This was a very clear message.

I’m in this mindset where I’ve focused myself back into fear. I am rather unsure how to break out of it. Apathy seems more comfortable than feeling good. Feeling good seems false and draining and forced. Like I am creating happiness simply to avoid the sad depths. I fear my subconscious. I fear myself going mad. These realizations make sense over and over and over again. I keep getting these bright spots of awakening and illuminations. Then I fall back into a darkness. I am tired of fear. And I’m tired of fighting and struggle. I am simply tired. Feeling good seems like so much effort. Fear is exhausting too. So I exhaust myself trying to deal with everything. And the real world sit outside all these thoughts knowing nothing of what I deal with. And I feel, almost a contempt, but more certainly a desire to escape.

I thought the purpose of being here was love. But repetitive meditations have shown, beyond everything even love disappears. It becomes completely unnecessary. And having to convince myself what I’ve held onto this whole time, that love is the reason we exist, seems false now too. A belief system.

I don’t want this, the idea that truth is whatever I make of it. That love and all emotions are just …. Tools. I don’t want to know how alone I really am. Like there isn’t anyone else in the entire world after all. I feel very alone. I fear that I don’t exist. I feel no one else does. I worry these realizations will end me. I am very afraid of existing without form. And love, seems like a child’s story. Pretty, but untrue. Funny, as not two days ago I publicly extolled the merit of that very emotion above all else. Funny, as love is the singular thing I have wanted for all of my conscious life here on earth. Have I been wanting a ghost? A mirage? Illusion? If what we believe exists I think I just solved why I haven’t I found love yet.

I didn’t believe it exists.

I like the story of love. It is nice. Inclusive. But … People often define fear as … An illusion. If fear doesn’t exist doesn’t it follow that its opposite doesn’t either? And as I have felt both … Are these things, these emotions just product of a dreaming mind? Or am I just consciousness being conscious and nothing really exits at all?

So what is the point? If we dont exist at all? Why are we here. Why are we there? (Here being alive and human and there being non physical energy or dead if you must be specific.) What is the reason we exist?

If we exist just because we do I think that would be incredibly boring. When I was a child heaven sounded dreadfully boring as singing and milk and honey forever didn’t seem worth all the things I had to do today to get there. And now the idea of just existing to exist, quoting Thich Nhat Hahn,”Your purpose is to just be.”

I feel the truth in that. It feels right. And my mind is quiet right now. Nothing spare and floaty comes in. I am in a meditative state. But I am awake and in this world, eyes open for the first time while in this deep. And I feel … Clear. Like breath, breathing, air is being drawn in from the far corners of the galaxy, like on some horizon where I can see for thousands upon billions of light years away. And I breath in from there. From all corners of there.

What is the purpose of love if love isn’t our purpose? What is the purpose of fear? And if we exist just to be why … Why isn’t there a purpose? What god would create us just to leave us with nothing to do? Was he just mad happy in the kitchen creating something to make himself happy in the creation of it? Not even planning on consuming his creation afterwords, which would be a purpose in the end after all. Isvara was said to have begun the world in one extended session of masturbation. We, of duality, were born of nothing. Are we just the unplanned pregnancy of the cosmos?

Why. The age old question. Why do we exist? Why am I alive? Why do I want to be? Why would I want to be otherwise? Why am I here? Why haven’t I killed myself yet? Is it fear? Or hope? It has to be hope, when in the heart of suicidal feeling I have always had this pure glow of hope from my center which … Got in the way. It gave me the feeling I have what I want waiting just around the corner. And that I can’t leave without it.

So what is waiting? What is the reason I am still here? I am happy with my realizations. I could die happy now. Today. There is nothing left to do. That I know of.

So why am I here still?

I thought it was love. I thought it was some grand scheme which said I have destiny to reach for the pinnacle of this feeling.

And if we exist to create our own purpose ….

Where is she?

She being the love I want. My reason for existence. My soulmate. My twin flame. Or whatever label you can subscribe to.

Heh. Even I can’t create that image in the heart of this place anymore. I am open to the realization love and fear don’t matter. And soul mates don’t exist. I want them to, I want one so very badly, but they don’t exist. And we don’t exist so is it any wonder that’s just a pretty fairy tale imagined.

All I have wanted since the beginning of my incarnation into this place is to be loved, and if emotions are just tools, like suits to put on, it stands to reason if I want love I could have it … if I just put on the love suit.

I don’t want to. I want love to come to me. I don’t want to create it. I want … Someone, anyone, to love me, see me. Enjoy me. So I can enjoy them. Even source would suffice.

But no one else exists. We are alone. We are source. I am source. I am alone. I am.

Perhaps that is the reason we are here. So we can pretend we aren’t alone.

What came first the chicken or the egg? Does it matter? The other isn’t real anyway.

And love isn’t real. And neither is fear. And you and I, we both don’t exist. Awareness, consciousness, source, god exists. And that is all. I is designation. Noun defined as person, place, or thing.

And words really don’t matter either.

In the last meditation I did I was a book, full of white empty pages. And you could write on them, tear them out, try and understand but run water over then and they were clean and white again. And I could read them, without the words. Words got in the way. Each page was too full to hold words on it.

An Exorcize of Analogy

The beach is windy today. It blows the sands upon me; thousands upon more miniscule peppering of stones cling, and simper, and lean upon me.

They all decided to cling to me the moment I plopped down, and the wind took up, and the arch of my shoulder’s hunch against the brisk wind made a hollow for them to storm in and gather upon my boots, thighs, stomach, and breasts. When they began to find too much fondness for my face I closed my eyes, suffered the buffeting of the prickles of sand thrown against lips and eyelids and cheek hollows, until displeased with the lack of vision I pushed myself to a standing position and brushed them off.

It occurred to me, as this happened, the intellectual voice inside my head informed me in a lecture type way, that the grains of sand could be likened to thought-forms. This continued with similar thoughts leading outwards like, if each grain is a thought-form than the wind would be the energy which drives. The wind blows the sands around like energy flows thoughts into our minds, and each can cling to us, be grasped and picked up in handfuls, and slowly let fall through widened fingers, then excess brushed off. Some, of course, linger. They cling to skin and clothes and shoes. They cling to lips and hair and sit between our teeth to find when we taste them later. But they can be discarded, eventually. And they do remain just what they are, millions of tiny forms, at the ready of an eager wind, to blow around the vast empty corners of our minds, and create a storm if left to chase tail in such sinkholes.

As I walked the sand–where the sea gently lapped up and away– lightened as my weight pressed down. It was as if beneath my black cowboy boots with the pointed toes, there was a halo. A light like from some divine play to highlight each tread as I treaded it. And I watched this marvel and I wondered which was this in the brain? Neuron emission? The white light you see when you roll closed eyes too far in one direction? Evidence of soul? I never did decide on that ones identity. I did become too caught with the sight of sand, wet, collecting upon the tip of my boot sole and then thrown forward with each pointed toe as I walked. Like clomps of thoughts all affinity thrown into the future to be thought again at a later date. And the water would be the magnetic link holding them in company.

But what of the sea and sun and sky? What of the space that exists between sky and sand? What of the land which stretches beyond the sand and sea? What be all of they? And what of the refuse which lies in the sand?– Bottles worn by the taste of the sand grains running down harsher edges, pieces of discarded plastics and styrophomes. And Starbucks empty cups laying in wait to capture more sand.– Even the dead jelly’s and shell fishes lie upon the sand and half in it, like little way stations here and there. They also collect sand. What be they?– And the leaves and the seaweed. And what of the seagulls which stand feet locked in wet sand as the sea laps up around them then away again? And what of the coolness when the sun hides behind clouds or when it is stark against a naked sky and hot upon the sands? What does it be?

To all these questions the answers could be found,  but I find it tedious to continue to so. It real was just a passing fancy, this exorcize of analogy; product of an idle, stimulation starved mind. As I walked back from the beach– which met the sea– to the beach– which met the boardwalk– the wind was too strong for me. I felt it as though it ran straight through me, like my chest was a open heart hole, which didn’t feel quite right so I turned myself around and walked backwards all the way back. It was an interesting perspective and also reminiscent of my analogy. We go forward through our lives with our back turned, watching where we’ve been, never seeing where we go unless we turn around. But if you turn around the wind’s too strong an energy. Eventually you either turn back around or just close your eyes. Either way, you still walk blind.

However, I did turn around just as I reached the fence, before I would have bumped into it; I guess I remembered where it was in the brief look forward. So, perhaps there’s something to be said for looking into the wind upon an occasion, for as long as you can handle it.

Mockingbird

She is me. I saw myself in her eyes, the first time I looked. And she is not me. I felt her in my eyes, the first time she looked.  And for that second I thought of clouds, infinite and fluffy and all around us, in waves of white. I didn’t note the color of her hair or eyes or soul, but I saw her.

And I loved her.

And I loved me.

For as I fell for her I fell for myself. So deep in love, so scared to fall and hit the ground and never touch those clouds again. So scared to loose that simple feeling, where love was light, and my very soul and hers blended, and mixed, and we were one in that tiny space where it was just us and conversation and focus.

And she became the highlight of my day.

And she became the highlight of my mind.

And she became the highlight of my heart.

Until those clouds became my heart, and she settled there, nesting like a feathered thing, and replacing the beating mess of red pain I’d grown there.

And I felt the distance between us, like a bird on a limb, close or far, with little know how to fly. And my wings did not grow enough to sustain flight, for I was too young. And her wings did not grow to a span large enough to bear her weight. And I doubted it entered her mind she could fly.

But I waited, and cuddled her heart in my chest, and I waited, for the return of regard, and I waited to grow enough to fly, feeding on the wind and stars and darkness between the stars and the endless sunlight. And I grew some, but not enough, and I could not measure her wingspan but from my view it did not increase.

And despair settled over me, as well as love. For my heart reflects me, like a mirror, like a pool, like the mockery of the air carrying birdsong between the trees.

And if she is me, when I look into her soul and love it so very much, how can I not love myself? How can I not carry that feeling to the higher air and scream out the triumph of my joy? How can I not fly when all the world awaits to be seen?

For love is the very heart of me now, and love becomes me, and love enlightens my soul to infinite decay of what is gone and should not be and is not of the above.

My mockingbird, so close and so far.

I feel the love I bear thee.

And I rejoice, for when I fly, so will you know the sky. For I will bear your heart to the heavens with me, and we will see the light.

Perception

I am alone.

I walk on my feet. I see with mine eyes. I choose with my stomach. I eat of the earth. I die consciously. I am alone.

I have seen no one for days beyond days. I have seen not a soul nor a speck of activity upon the face of this plane save me. I walk up the mountains, beside the creek beds. I travel the roads gone to dust, trek the forests, swim the seas. I traverse the whole world in a lifetime. I see most everything. Alone I saw it, alone I woke into it, alone I was of it, and alone I die.

Were I to assume the existence of another such as I to give this experience to in words, and hear you ask if I was lonely, I would tell you I am not. And it is not because I know not what other’s be, but because in my aloneness I am free. There is not another to behold me.

Did it ever occur to you the moment another perceives you; you change? You become something to be perceived, categorized, labeled, inside the brain. You become a single shine on an infinite prism of what you truly be. And as they continue to perceive you, they might see to other planes, see more of you; and yet never can they fathom all you are. They cannot even yet fathom themselves. And so the moment another holds you in their perception, they limit you.

And even as I say that, I say they cannot. It was your choice to be so perceived in the first place. You imagined this potential other into existence, you imagined their perspective, you imagined their view. And verily I say it was thine own dream which saw you from such limited scope. It was thine own want. It was thine own choice.

In actuality it was mine. Because I am alone.

Lectured by myself: on the subject of can’t.

For the past ten minutes I have been lectured by myself.

Or rather it weren’t lecture but preaching or something to that effect. It, the other side of the argument, the other me voice, the devil’s advocate so to speak,  was discussing my accepted belief that I can’t, and demanding confirmation I had been defeated.

“So have you been defeated,” It demanded, all round words like a British dialect. “Have you been so conquered by doubt then? Have you settled like a conquered nation into the bosom of your self pity, like a wallowing in tears or mud and crying about crying and crying about the filth. Have you decided to surrender to a limitation you made, and accept yourself as all you can be under said limitation. Have you really decided that you can’t?

If so you might as well shuck off the mortal coil now, for all the good it will do you from here on out. Life lived under this belief of can’t is no life at all in both yours and mine opinion. Thus you have allowed yourself to die, and still walk around as if you aren’t. This is such silliness I would rather you toss yourself off a bridge rather than wallow in such a wretched display.

And yet, I would rather you not. You see I know you. I see how you live your life. You assume laziness or lack of will leads to this path of can’t but I know better. You walk around going through the motions all the while you remain a person in mourning, for yourself.

I know you. You remain a beautiful intelligent self. You endeavor to always see and change for beauty. For the better. For the love you give. What you love you try and become. What you want is not own things, materialistically, but to absorb them into your being like osmosis, because you know if you walk away without something of them to hold on to, the memory will slip away. You own to imprint, not cage.

You are not greedy or selfish or conniving. You worry the idea of misconduct between teeth and tongue and moral code.

You seek knowledge above all else because that is something you can keep, find beautiful, and instantly apply. Like manifestation. You are wholly wonderful, you see your self growth, watch your being change, you embrace all things about yourself even if it is stubbornly etched there in psyche for years, you exorcise it and transmute it and find it lovable. You believe in all beliefs and none.

You find yourself tickled by things you say and do and love. You reflect this in others and love them their self owned pieces of you. You hear your own negativity and indulge in fits of tantrum only to walk away forgetting it completely minutes, hours, days later. And you smile and congratulate yourself on your victories small and great. You even find pleasure in your machinations.

You are what you seek. You are glory incarnate. You are capable and able and talented and worthy. You see yourself through another’s eyes before your own. You forget it is not them seeing you, but you seeing you through the reflection. You second guess and attempt for better each time. You embrace your tears, flee your pain until you remember its better to accept, you ever and always love.

I know you. I am you. I see you. And can’t is not a word you want to apply. Can’t is the word you use to put up barriers so you forget there is more ahead. Can’t is the word you would replace, were you to hear it fall from another’s lips, you would want to chastise and uplift and advise, were it another. Can’t is the word you enchain yourself with. You mourn not your death but your freedom.

And I would say I can’t allow it but I refuse to use that word nor place it on you, even as you are me, even as we are, and this is a conversation with myself. I allow you the choice to use it henceforth. But I challenge the necessary of this action. Why need you say you can’t? Why need you an excuse to not be more? Why need you this limitation? How does telling yourself you can’t serve you?

Beloved I love you. I can’t imagine not. And yes I can. I can imagine not loving you, not loving me, because we have before. And walking the path of self hatred, of self fear, is not the path you know now. Self love is won. I choose to love you. You choose to love you.

This is the choice. Fear or Love.

You can.”

‘a bio’, and ‘why I write’

I was 8 years old when I decided to stop playing with toys and realized the need for a substitute. Until then, my play had reached soap opera status, the little plastic horses in the little plastic stable which were among my prize possessions had taken on a life of their own. There was drama and back story and each session of play would continue the melee.

And one day, I had this thought, that soon I would stop playing with toys. Suddenly I felt as if it were a boring activity. That there was too much limitation.

And so I thought about it for a few weeks, and I thought very hard, of options to replace toys. And I discovered books about the same time I discovered day daydreaming. And the books which captured me were a series of 7, followed by a series of 8 after it. They were thin books, soon I could read them all in a week. Today, I could read them all in a day. But they captured my imagination,  and woke a love of reading and of romance, which had been a single thread through the books that I was quite taken with. And soon I began to wonder if I could just be rid of the need for a medium. After all, why would I need toys which were limited to shape and form and caricature, if I could simply imagine them as anything.

Thus I made rather appropriate use of the designation imaginary friend. Which soon became plural. Soon, a little tiny wagoneer and his wagons full of wife and brood, were reoccurring visitors, as was the girl who could only walk on shadows, who I often played with while in the car. And the only friend who remained attached to physical form was Buster who was my best friend.

Buster, I’ve written about him before in various self dissecting variations, remains to this day my first heartbreak. He was made of a black cat form, beans in his round paws to weight them, and little orange embroidery in his years and orange colored eyes and an orange bow. He was a Halloween cat.

I loved him at first sight. He was in the rather expensive thrift store which sold baby clothes that was near our new house, sitting on a shelf behind the counter. I remember my mother wouldn’t buy him, but helped me save for him. I remember i wasn’t even high enough to reach the counter when I emptied by piggy bank for his purchase. And when I took him home, because my mother didn’t approve if Halloween, the first thing I did was change him. I recolored his eyes, I sowed over his ears, I rid him of the Halloween orange bow. And then he was safe to love, and love him unconditionally I did.

And toys were played with less and less, and the in not at all, but my imaginary friends and Buster remained. Buster, who was imaginary and not at the same time, physical toy, and voice in my head which I knew was under my control, but I imagined not. Buster who was still was a real person to me. He was my conscience, sometimes, in fact usually he was the devils advocate to any venture of mine. He often urge me to do things which were wrong too, in the interest of making mow happy. I was a very well behaved child, too behaved at times, and it was a nice release of that control to allow myself to follow his directives on the occasion.

It was when I lost Buster that toys and imaginary friends of the kind I imagined I could see disappeared. My mother and stepfather went through a divorce and for a while he had custody. Then, with the court ruling, I was returned to her, and my sister stayed with him. And Buster was left on a pile of clean clothes and was forgotten in a rush of event unpredictable and extreme. And after that I didn’t play with toys again. Nor did the imaginary ones show up. I think the wagoneer might have bid me good bye, and I k own the girl who could only walk on shadows still runs about Portland Oregon in the rain. But they never visit me.

However the need for play didn’t leave. And I did remember the books and the daydreaming, and after a little while I found daydreaming was rather limitless. I could imagine anything, be anyone, have any life I wished, all in the privacy of my little head. And eventually people thought I was a patient and quiet child. But really, I was just happiest in my head than out. If I weren’t daydreaming, I was reading, finding inspiration for my daydreams, and looking back I was learning how to write.

I didn’t stop the day dreaming. I continued it far into my teens them twenties saying I would stop soon, but never managing it. In my head I would play out an imagining staring me and I would imagine it being the reality and this world the dream. And nothing ever came true but I never stopped believing that owned way something would, and even if it didn’t, while I was there in the daydreams, in the books, I was happy. More happier than I’ve ever been here except when in the throes of love.

I realize now, I am selfish. That’s why I write. Its not because I want to share with the world or make loads of money or get in the history books. If I do get famous I want it to be under alias. Its because I’m older now and I don’t really remember the daydreams they way I used to. And words better capture them anyhow. And I’m actually good at it, after the years of being buried in between the pages.