Painting: Rebekah Nichols Forsaken
The words alight on my brow and cascade down fingertips to a cold ascetic keyboard into poetic…nonsense? Words are components of descriptive nuances, each part of a whole, something or other with essence or not. And sometimes the emotional equivalent of those words is entirely lacking despite having the entire English language to back it up. My brain is having a gag reflex damning up the thought process.
Words are not necessarily missing, trivialized, or running amok causing chaos across the written platform. I’m the one in chaotic disorder. Given the choice to dive deep or tread the shallow depths, I will always dive in head first. Never one to want to explore my chances, always in a hurry to feel, to experience things fully in the moment – I’m suddenly afloat in a quagmire of epiphany. This brings me to the conclusion there will never be enough pages or blank space in my lifetime for all the experience accrued until now.
Quite daunting for someone who has harped from day one embarking on this journey, claiming one must live effusively in order to write. Every turn of a phrase is tinged with this woman’s experience which removes the innocence of her childlike wonder with life. I’m neither poet nor martyr, I’m a human being folded into the creases of moments. Haunted by shadows written and unwritten which flow and ebb in a day and a year; those memory rakers, those heart rendering seconds of a life.
Everything comes back to the one question no matter, “I am?”
I am unfinished, incomplete, lost and found; I’m a shell of my former self now filled with the exquisite mutterings of what comes from listening to a heart, the result of want and curiosity. I am everything and nothing but a cataloger of who I’m yet to be; with a penchant for words and the mystery of what came before. I’m you and I’m not.
The brain gags in reflux, chokes, and gags again, and the words vomit forth.