Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Ghost of Me

 photo RebekahNicholsForsaken.jpg
Painting: Rebekah Nichols Forsaken

“Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living.” ― Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

The words alight on my brow and cascade down fingertips to a cold ascetic keyboard into poeticnonsense? 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.

There is only this one life and I have enough living left for several. There isn’t a reason or rhythm sometimes for whatever we write or the decisions we make. I’m okay with that. Whatever I do will always be left unfinished, waiting for another lifetime to fill the obligation. And sometimes we find the answer in the question. Who am I but the mystery of who I am? ~ Indigo


  1. Incredible. Really insightful. You point out how life can be a conundrum and in its complexity lies simplicity. So insightful

  2. What a wonderful piece of writing, Indigo.

  3. Love this!!! I'm asking who am I now yearning for answers of tomorrow when I only have Now...thank you for this piece..((hugz!!))

  4. excellent piece! so thought provoking, makes me reflect on my own life. I’m a human being folded into the creases of moments. Wonderful sentence!

  5. As usual your writing always makes me take pause and think.


Thank you for giving my silence a voice, my muse your words, and taking the time to discover my prose.