Waking Is An Odd Thing. 

​I wake to the world of reality.  I wake to the sunlight which stretches across my room,  filling it white, white and receptivity.  I feel my body,  this heavy thing always part and parcel of me.  I reach for electronics which propel me into a smaller multidimensional space.  My eyes water and irritate me.  My hairs separate from my head and fall on my face to tickle me.  The feeling of my skin against my skin is close and done brilliantly.  I contemplate that all molecules are mostly empty and therefore all that I feel and see is mostly empty.  I interpret my dreams vaguely.  I write them out carefully.  I inscribe every detail and publish it to the world,  hoping somebody recognizes me.  I am lonely.  It is not always a painful feeling.  It’s something that feels like sand against your skin,  it can be welcome,  just as it can be itchy.  I think of her and this brand newly awoken me thinks of her fondly, distantly, unpainfully.  And then I think,  where will I be in this grand scheme of things,  when I die,  and the world collects me?  I will have done nothing with no one to remember me.  I will be elusive,  like smoke,  transitional and chaotically ephemeral. No one will think of me,  no but some will think ill of me before they forget me.  This thought usually fills me with self loathing but I am new to this day and I am filled with allowance.  It doesn’t hurt me.  I merely wish it were different.  I wish life better fitted me.  Yes that is it,  it feel like this suit called life is the wrong size and shape and sags on me.  It is also the wrong fashion and material and it’s like playing dress up in costume which consumes me.  Yes life is vivid and externally tactile,  enjoyable physically.  But it feels wrong to me,  in the sense that nothing is wrong but something else is meant to be.  And I’m sorry,  very sorry,  if you misunderstand me.  I am only telling you what I sense and see and feel and expect.  Yes this life exists and what is mean to be is something I expect but do not see.  What does this mean? What could it be. 
Waking is an odd thing.  

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.

My emotions ebb and wane with the weather.

When it is hot

I rage, I melt,

I am a puddle inside a lava-pit.

I am literally ire incarnate,

disappointment

charred to despair.

 

And when the day dawns cool

I am at rest.

I feel as if alone in a forest,

with only the animals

and trees

and wind for company.

I hear the drums,

breathe in life, prana

and I am peace incarnate then.

 

My emotions ebb and wane

with the weather,

and I am free to express

my sadness with the rain.

Let it fall and express

my horror at the heat,

my hate at the humidity,

my hollow heartbeat

in between the raindrops.

 

Let it fall and shed

my tears on the world.

And let me know

more of myself in it,

in between the raindrops

let me find my thoughts,

my light and darkness,

my tragedy and idols.

 

Let me tie myself to myself,

and not myself to the weather,

or the weather to myself.

Let me know

my inside thoughts

before they reflect themselves

in the mirror

of my world window.

 

Let me wrap myself

in the gauze

of self adoration,

hold the wounds themselves,

stave off the blood,

and wash away the sorrows

whenever they are free

to let go.

 

Let me ebb and flow

with my emotions,

let me never wane.

I am pain, sorrow, sadness,

misery, rebuttal, fear,

rage, and gratitude for it all.

 

I am peace and reflection,

nostalgia and admiration,

acceptance and appreciation,

and regret.

 

I am all that I am,

not the good or bad days

respectively,

not that which I choose

to only see,

but all I feel

right now.

 

I am myself,

all that I feel, be, see,

and what you see.

In Control

I cannot be with anyone.

Inside I feel such pain. I don’t know why nor where it comes from, but it manifests in this strange urge to eschew company. I haven’t spent much time around anyone in months. The days stretch long and open, I wake when I wish, sleep when its needed, eat for pleasure not routine. My life revolves around three solid things, my healing, distractions, and love.

This love is novel. I remain unfamiliar with this type of love.  It is unique in that it is singular to me.  I am the only recipient.  I am the only source.  I am in control of its generation.  I bask in the flow.  And this is my joy and regret.

I feel joy I have learned this,  it is almost a new skill.  It is almost a new dawn in my life. But I also miss being loved by another.  I miss it.

This missing drives me to peruse online profiles but this habit has become a source of pain for me.  I peruse and it gets stronger and stronger in my chest,  a feeling of unease so great it feels like a stone covers my heart center…

And I am alone again.

I close the application  and I am able to breathe through the pain.  I have learned not to fight it.  Pain exists. And it has just as much a right to exist as anything.  It even has a purpose.  But it doesn’t feel nice to cry and not know why. To poke around inside my head, berate my psyche, interrogate the evasive me,  this is futile for I feel I have gotten somewhere …

… and I turn around the next day to discover I have only gone in circles.  I am enough for myself and that is it.  I only have myself and that is it.

And I am both content and ill content with that.

I would love to have dates,  so I say this.  Then it becomes untrue. This wretched thing come up,  overcomes me it,  and I find I am fighting fear more frightening that any first date.  Why.  Why can I not move on and get on with it.  It feels like my life is on hold waiting for itself to begin.  It feels like love,  the concept of it sung in song and tale,  seeps away into the cracks between memories.

Soon it will be gone I think.  Loving her was so distinct but now it fades.  And I am left alone.

I am reminded of last loves.  The strong ones,  the ones worth the bitter ends they became.

She remains a hollow in my memory,  a holy thing,  a fragile love. And so much anger builds behind it,  for I am forced to think of the good times with the bad.  After all she did not treat me with courtesy.  I didn’t know it then but I know it now.  I treat myself now as she should have done and wish I had known better.  If I had known how to treat myself then she would have known how to treat me.

And the anger fades.  I take responsibility back and it fades and I am grateful for the lesson learned.  And I miss her a bit more with the knowledge.

I cannot be with anyone yet,  because the pain is still too great even now.  She does hold that place,  it’s been a year.  But I cannot let go so another could claim it.  I cannot let go.  I am afraid to let go.  I fear unlearning the love I hold now.  I fear unloving myself when I lose the love of her.  I fear being alone with a lonely me instead of one eschewing company.  It is almost better to pine than it is to be loved.

Here I at least have control of my heart.

 

 

Dear X,

So randomly I found myself downloading Twitter of all things. I suppose I just felt the need to get back in touch with the world. I’ve sorta eschewed social media for the last six months. It’s better this way I figure, these people aren’t my real friends. Real friends call and visit and care and stuff. Why should I post shit for them to see when they are just … Fake. Facebook is not a place for real friends I’ve found. Once they get you friended they fade into this background wall of plural-ness. I’m reminded of the worms Urusla turned the merpeople into. Plus my ex is on Facebook and she … Is a source of great thrill and anxiety for me. Whatever I digress.

Um, I found myself on Twitter and in the course of setting it up I synced my contacts.

Yours was the only one which I might have been interested in, I hesitated knowing I wouldn’t be serious in anything like a permanent follow. Damn. The idea of a request for that was so daunting I couldn’t even think about it. And last minute I was drawn to click the little picture. The one of your car.

Which I was suprised to see was the only thing I could see. Damn. You’d blocked me. And on a site I never even used. That’s commitment. I hate to see my old facebook then. You know the one I never use which you never unfriended me on, not for years after that whole debacle.

 

I stared at your car, beloved old thing. And felt my heart crack and bleed for the first time in ages. I didn’t realize it had been hardened like stone until that moment. Now I felt something strong there for the first time. Pain. Like betrayal and surprise and that moist feeling in your throat before you cry.

Damn.

I don’t think I’I’ve felt that hurt in a while. All that time, I knew you never blocked me once. I sorta built up in my head this paragon of kindness, who didn’t deserve what I put him through. Who suffered it with unwavering aplomb and elegant demeanour. Smh.

I tried to put myself down again, like usual, automatically imagining the event from your point of view, which really made me color myself horribly, like a grotesque version of me as both villian and resident crazy, … but this time I stopped. I realize I’ve changed a lot since then. I might still feel shame for my actions, but I can’t feel guilt anymore. In fact the more I write the more it fades. I rationalize now in kind with new beliefs. We both did agree to bring out in each other what happened. And me, I was more broken than I ever knew. But it wasn’t wrong. It was … Perhaps the darkest time in my life. The darkest I’ve ever sunk to. Perhaps what they mean when they say ‘Dark Night of the Soul’.

I worry if it gets worse than that.

However even my newfound peace and forgiveness does recognize a pattern. My closest relationships end inevitably with someone blocking me, and usually me them. Oh the wonders of social media.

I used to write you and apologize. Wallow in my guilt and wail it all out upon the ears I remember being so … Willing. What you gave me, can never be replaced. Regardless of anything you or I ever did, you gave me acceptance, for the first time. You gave me support. And there was, I don’t know if you remember, but I felt for the first time, some admiration come my way. Way back before things went sour I mean. If it weren’t for you I would have never survived my relationships after. Maybe even my life after.

Thank you so much for that.

And I realize now something else. Those other relationships, all of them, even with my family … They all gave me something. Even my ex who hurt me worst of all, loved me best. I was thinking of her today, missing her as a person. And then laughing at myself for forgetting how horribly she treated me. And still having to force myself to recall each and every moment of ill treatment to keep the picture of her balanced, to keep myself from swinging into a pining mood.

I realize now it doesn’t matter how she treated me. The memories of love linger more strongly. And of you, even stronger than my own actions, the first spark of pure unadultered friendship. My family, my mother, might hurt more to think on and delve into but I’m sure there is a lot she gave I don’t want to acknowledge right now out of anger. And that is okay too.

In fact. Let me offer something back to you, X. Let me help you as you once did me.

I accept you don’t want to hear from me. And that is perfectly okay.

love needs the light.

its like I loved,

in a dark place.

she was my heart,

before her I didn’t know

I had one. she grew there,

in my chest, like a feathered

thing, a beating drum,

and she showed it to me.

she showed me what a heart

is. she showed me

and I learned

and I surpassed her.

 

she left me,

in a dark place.

when she left I

perceived

she took the light

with her, and I was alone.

and I still had my heart,

which was her

and it ached

in the absence of her.

and it beat sluggishly,

inconsistently,

intermittently.

I could feel it in my chest,

hear it in my skin,

the flutter of it’s magnanimity,

made me worry.

 

I forgave her,

and I blamed her,

and I bade her,

return to me.

but only silently,

and she,

she never did,

until I had become

happy,

and she sad

and I was moved on.

 

and then she wrote,

me claimed love

for me, spoke

love for me,

achingly,

wantingly,

and I was angry,

and I was pain,

and I was scared,

and I refused her.

 

and I left her

in a dark place.

get out, I said,

yourself.

I did.

 

and when she’d gone

silent I remembered

how I loved,

how my heart,

beat as her,

personified as her,

and that I loved her.

 

and how it just wasn’t

enough, to love

in the dark. love

needs light

to grow.

Good

I feel eviscerated.

I must caution you against reading this if you are feeling emotionally fragile. If you are you might want to leave it unread. My pain wafts off these pages. I am undone here. I am laid bare. I am naked in my vulnerability and I promise you will feel with me by the end. And I must write this; I have no choice.

I feel tortured. I feel I stayed a while in hell. I did so willingly, assured there was some point to it, but in the end if the conversation had not taken place, perhaps I would be better. I know I would still be the same. Now I am different, changed, born anew, stronger. I weathered it, I faced the doubts another’s counteractive view tried to impress upon me, like brainwashing, like waterboarding, waves of her emotions, her pain, her need impressed upon me. I nearly sunk with the weight of it. And I knew, going in, she would be doing this to me, she would be dragging me down into her undertow, into her water depths of despair, into her hell. And I sought to heal, and understand, and pour my own fire on the blaze.

I regret it now. I don’t often regret much, but I do regret the anger and insanity I let loose upon her. Oh, I doubt I left visible wounds. I doubt I even left new ones. It’s possible I just reopened old ones with my truths but I regret doing so. Hurting her, was not satisfying when she is already so hurt. And the only way I forgive it, is to acknowledge she has hurt me, and it was in aid of healing for myself which let me pour the truths unfolded upon her already self pitying ears. I feel eviscerated, due to myself being reamed out during the duration of the conversation, scooped out of pain and anger and hate; all wrapped up in blame of her, for the hurts she dealt, and which I endured, and which I overcame, and which I removed myself from, and which she might do so again. I felt threatened. She wanted me back, in her life, in her existence, in her sphere. She wanted to impart how I was her love, and she was not the person I remember her as the (one who didn’t love me, and treated me so). And so I, not knowing where I was going, allowed it, until the pain drove my body into sleep, and my soul into healing, and I awoke feeling eviscerated.

I wondered, the whole while, if it were me? If I was the one in the wrong. If it was only that I change could the happily ever after come into being? I entertained the idea it was all my fault, and I need only change and be more loving and accepting, and she and I would heal and the hurt would stop. I tried to apply all my learned stuffs on spiritual matters and I only managed to open a door, and let her into my soul to torture it further. The interrogator in my den. She is a broken thing right now, hurting, dying, letting the pain she wrought upon herself and others eat at her soul. She is supposed to be happy, not thinking of me, living her life, loving it. Instead she is calling my friend crying that I refused answer her missive, and she is feeling such self pity she throws traps of guilt that cling like tar to my feet to capture me and draw me in.

And then she tried, oh she did, to tell me she loved me. I tried, I did, to believe it. I allowed her to torture me, with news about her, with her side of the story, with recollections grim and glossy, and I tried to see it this way. She loved me, and she was scared, and she still wanted me, and it did not compute. I am done. I am different. She has intruded upon a new me. I am not the thing she tossed around, like a cat with ball. I am not the toy she made me. I am stronger than that.

I refused to become hers again. I refused to entertain her notions of events, told in her version, colored her way, decrying my own lived recollections. I refused to give up my ideas, for they mold me, make me, become me, I live because of them. I refused to give up the beauty I have become in aid of a dark, twisted version that remains lost and left cautionary tale and recovered from. I am this beautiful spirit, and I do need to remain this. I refused allowance of the contrary.

But it was hard won. This woman, who loved me, who was me, who wanted me, is not worthy of me. And I am worth more than she, and what she gives, and what she offers, and what I need. I am worth more than the past, and worth more than the pain, and worth more than the lived torture. I refused. And with parting blows she let me be.

And I feel eviscerated. Like I were she, and she is death, and I am dying the arms of her soul. I feel, too much connection. I must need withdraw, but it hurts to. For I did love her. I did. I did. I just lost us both along the way.

There though, it is done. I wrote her thusly, speaking of my actual feelings, and my actual perception, and my actual reality. I spoke more of truths and less of lies and platitudes and couched phrases of softness. I told her I was done. And I meant it. I do not want her back. I do not want that pain again. I do not deserve to be tortured. I am done.

And I feel like death. Behind my eyes I feel tears which remain just whines of tiredness and ache. I feel like a battlefield gone cooling. I feel like a demon horde ravaged land. I feel finally finally free. And it does not feel good, as I expected it to. It’s just heavy with losses, on both sides, and disgusting with corpses, and pregnant with pain. It feels like healing is in order but grief is too momentary to allow just yet. It feels, like apocalypse.

Good.

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.

Trees talk to the stars.

As a kid, the November months were the best for me.

I loved the fall in temperature, the cut of freshness in the air, the leaves abandonment of the trees which made the outdoors smell of a sort of earthen nature calling to the Native American in me. It’s a wet feeling in the air, or a dry feeling, or a cold feeling. You must know what I mean. It’s November and it was my favorite time of year.

My mother dated Clarence for a while. He was a cowboy of sorts. Not the actual kind, like from Texas, but he did have a few horses, and a farm kinda thing, oh and a pig. It was in Virginia so I don’t really count it. And he had acres of land. Most of it was forest. Not like, Little Red Riding Hood forest or The Forbidden Forest kind of forest, but I counted it as forest. Instead, it had a lightness to it, a feeling of being alone, yet so filled with life unearthly. It was a sweet forest, a small forest, a hollow of trees winding roots together beneath the earth and foliage and fenced in boundaries. I ran around in it, at the age of 13 and it was my freedom. Otherwise I’d be stuck reading inside a room dark with wood paneling and listening to Country music blasting all the time.

I was only there in November, my mother only dated him as long as it took for her to be adored. When he got fed up with her temper tantrums and histronics (he wasn’t the sort to coddle), she labeled him the bad guy and moved us back in with Nana, who then blamed it on him being black, which wasn’t said aloud for fear of being politically incorrect but was rather like the prejudice was implied. Then again my mother had horrible taste and every man she dated was labeled wrong for something, so that was just how it was, and I really didn’t appreciate the racist additional, so I just ignored it. Which was my default for most everything anyway.

But I was happy there. I remember that. And Clarence was my favorite of my mom’s boyfriends. And I loved he didn’t coddle her. At the age of 13 even I was tired of her childishness at times. That he just huffed a disgusted laugh when she was raging in a childish way about disrespect, when he didn’t even in my opinion, and when she feigned a faint, he stepped over her dramatic splay, made me applaud on the inside. If she had just seen how good he was for her, perhaps my life would have been a lot different. I really liked him for a dad. He would have made a good one.

It was October I remember, just the first blush of it, and I learned to ride a horse, a stallion, even almost falling off I learned. And I learned to make a treehouse by myself. Clarence, I think tickled to have a stand in daughter, allowed me complete freedom. And I remember getting just the base built before I gave up and would just take my homework to that platform and stare up the trees and imagine more freedom than that.

I remember it felt, when I did that, like the trees were falling into the stars.

The nights when I went out, the sky was so bright above the sporadic canopy. I did mention the forest wasn’t really a forest, and so the trees did not obscure the sky at all. Instead it sorta highlighted it, like the trees were reaching out arms to the night lights above, and they were almost in a warped stretch, one you couldn’t with your eyes, but feel with a sense that wasn’t taste or touch or smell but something of all of those. And I could feel the forest felt like .. it was about to take off, into the sky, to be among the stars, except it never did. And it never would. And that was even better because the stars were in quiet communion through the expanse of time to the trees in my little sweet forest and I was mere witness.

One day, after I canceled on a friend of mine who wanted to come over but was a boy and I concluded might be interested romantically and I wasn’t cause he was a boy so I made up an excuse, one day I was out there and instead of sitting on that platform I walked the whole expanse of the forest between the fences that caged it, and finding a tree that felt right I put my back to it and looked up.

And along my spine, like fire surging I felt it. It was like there was a lightening rod, like the tree were a conduit, a shout, a string, that lead from the ground below up to the stars above, and translated the sounds of the earth to them, a tree translator. It was full of so much energy and wisdom and fire I was captured, more than a witness to a beautiful sight, but witness to prayer. From the earth through the trees to the stars.

Native Americans believe the trees sing to the stars and the stars sang back. They believe the trees are so old they remember us being made of starlight. I have Cherokee, Blackfoot, and Sioux ancestors. I am not a part of a tribe, or can I claim actual lineage, but the native american music (the drums, the piping, the chanting) has always elicited a feeling in my belly, of instinctive recognition, their stories a familiarity.

I remember my step sister and I would read a book of Native American myths as kids, and giggle over the explicitness in stories about trickster coyotes  having sex with women with vagina teeth and marvel at the creation tales which were so opposed to Christian origin we grew up being told was the only truth. We were not allowed to read it but we did anyway. I remember that being my favorite book, so dog eared it was, not because the stories were so randomly awkward, but because the feeling of the book in my hand held the feeling of November.

The sound of the words strung together were in English, yet still tasted like some Native American tongue, and was much like the feeling I heard when I watched the trees stretch up arms to the sky. I may not know much of myself yet, in this present state of ignorance, but I know there is genetic imprint of nature in my veins, and call it starlight, or more recent Native American genes, but I know more in my body than I do in my head sometimes. And I feel more on my skin than I see with my eyes.

And I dare you to stand with your back against a tree. Feel the energy along your spine. Let the tree channel you back to heaven; from earthen soil you were made in this body to the starlight from whence your soul came.

I dare you to listen to the trees talk to the stars. And I dare you to lie and say you don’t hear it.