"I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe." Franz Kafka - Diaries (1914)
Words from the poem Cut While Shaving, by Charles Bukowski
They whisper and taunt non-stop, these words buried deep. I should share them, dig those buried treasures up and smear them haphazard across a page and call it writing or prose or art. After all, isn’t that what a writer of any caliber does? We bludgeon ourselves on the sharp edges of knowledge, word playing our way into a facsimile of pretending to know what we meant to say. We tend to be either goal oriented or self-saboteurs, one dominating the other word for word.
Take heart, it’s not only writers who tend to be so effusive. Life itself constitutes a palindrome of excuses for living the way we do, backhanded by time constraints and overwhelming expectations.
I’m greedy with my words of late with too much emotional expense hidden in each paraphrase, in the art of silence, and living. Oh, I have words a plenty. The latent ability of deciphering those cruel paradoxes is the silencer. I smirk at the thief of lost hours and word verbiage, howling with the pups in their own language, watching summer collapse into fall, greedy unto myself.
And yet, I feel the tendrils holding back the bank of what needs to be said, breaking, one strand at a time. Old haunts, health, and the pain of simply being can overwhelm a chaotic psyche. Words tormented Charles Bukowski to no end, the genius is, he loved every single second of his torture. Even so, he shared those inside words with the world. I can’t help thinking that it’s possible to have too much living between the words. Too much life, too much of everything, to the point we don’t starve enough to explore deeper than where we are.
When those predilection words finally escape, the direction we were headed changes, the well becomes empty and we thirst for more. Words are meant to be shared. They don’t abandon us; these elusive words sustain us until we are ripe for living. I am the epitome of every single word I’ve ever written. So in the end, maybe it’s not the words I’m unwilling to share, but me. Yet, I’m the whole of every single utterance, occurrence, and emotion bestowed on me in a single day; all of which are alive with the voices of nature, urban decay, and personalities not my own. Words belong to no-one, to everyone. We only own the format in which we understand and share those vocal letters. ~ Indigo
The area dividing the brain and the soul
is affected in many ways by
Some lose all mind and become soul:
Some lose all soul and become mind:
Some lose both and become: