Language, me.Words only incommunicate me.And I am I a m I a mmore of the type that likes to fightwith the semantics of my own heart.
I have realized that the syntax of my thoughts,create my world.And I rather be free.Escape looks a lot like mute words and loud colors.My preferred pharmakon is a violent symphony of color.
Suppose I were to begin by sayingI have become submissive—to humans,to their ideas of time and language.I get puzzled by words and lost in time.I have stopped thinking about the pastbecause pain doesn't know timeand I don't have the languageto communicate to my heart.I, I, I epitomize her mystery.
How often do you get hyperbolic thoughts?I usually observe and let go,but lately I am like a drug sniffing-dogin search for the high.Straightforwardly an urge to hunt for thought,to hunt for word.An oxymoron—my heart says “left,”my thoughts say “yeah right.”
Maybe this time I won't hydroplane.How easy is it to lose controlfollowing the foolish wisdom of our hearts.I agree, I follow, I compromise.My thoughts have a host called lust,coexisting in mutualistic relationship—pushing, turning, touching, feeling.A part-time slave, the kind that believes it has free will.A monumental deception.I romanticize.
Let's play a game.Let me ask you—how much of paindo you think is self inflicted?I heard someone say"pain is not a limit, it is just information."Self imposed barriers of thought, subconscious,engraved & part of our collective memories.Inherited frameworks, frames, edges, boundaries, jails.I would like to be free—and if you think you already are,then you can never escape.May I ask...how much information are you willing to provide yourself with?
She requests amnesia.
Silence speaks too loud when first Truth awakes.It is true truth,Absence has created a song.Sounds in the in-betweensand breathing in her wordsfill her heart too full:Homeostasis.
A voting of feelings has happenedand a consensus has been reached.Loud silence is the winner.That of which we cannot speak,it is best to remain silent, and I agree.I feel every letter like a modern hereticthat has been red-pilled.Your name Jolene and I have nothing to do.My blues bleed.
Mecer:Holding each other, carrying each other.A balance of love, a movement.Rocking softly, forwards forward, backwards backward,creating soft waves.Finding care from within,minding flesh and touch,an apotheosis of understanding.Compassion and care,taking for another selfand discovering care for oneself.
My pen aligns with my heart,and both of them in a forever bar fight with my mind.My red pen likes chaos, messiness, lack of structure,free will, run on sentences,and using my skin as paper.
Excerpt II:putting together words in a way that can be best describedas some metaphorical cryptic bullshit from hell.
Excerpt III:and once in a while this is exactly what I need.And while I have your attention,do you like desire for desire itself?But what's hunger when you are already full.
In the making of this end,I find myself being a box of contradictory possessions.That is what my body is made out of,an assemblage of random parts and bits.A skinless shell that covers all the partsthat I don't even have name for.Magniloquently all working togetherin this mess that I make of life.
And if you meet me you'll realizesome parts are broken,some are bruised with errors and guilt.Pieces of self, floating, drifting, separating.The cause of damage is knownand classified as self-made self-destruction.
And my body knows well how to tell me I am hurting.I internally bleed this mute, medium, vivid yet dull blue—somewhere between indigo and ultramarine,maybe my own cyanide, the type that can kill you.I swim deep in my blues.
You will remember whereand I will remember why.Forcing my heart to not keep too much,to not get stuck,keeping bits, playing one with time.Stillness is the only path I knowto strip from time mementos of you.
If you look long enough,if you search long enough,there's a chance you will end up feeling lostlooking for yourself.Trying to find yourself—where did you put yourself?
And if you think a mirror will be of help,I say don't let it fool you.A reflection is an image distorted by the mind,a virtual representation of self.To look for self one has to explore within,a place where no mirror can help.
To find oneself is to lose oneself—to release ideas we hold,to emancipate from installed dogmas,to leave memories untouched,to even forget of our corporeal vessel,to let go of everything.
Until our own muteness speaks loud,truth from our unknowable essencefinding its own way back to us.The magic of finding what you can never cage,what you can never permanently hold—that magic that you only find when you lose it all.
Demiurge of my own story.You know what I have been up to?Entering the labyrinth named: my own making.And figuring my way out of it—out of my own theories and constructs,out of the things I tell myself,out of the narrow reality I perceive.
How can one exit oneself?A temporal but complete exile from self,a pulverization of paths.Dear Truth, true me, show me the way.I want to proceed.
I exist, now, in this exact moment,in a million different ways.I am my actions, my thoughts,the person who I believe I amand the one that people think I am.Along the way, every person I meetcreates a version of me—one I will never fully know.Perhaps I wouldn't even understand her.She is someone I will never be able to modify at my own will.Immutable, even, captured by the timestamp of others.
I exist today in many ways:I am words, I am sounds, I am thoughts and images.I am a smell. A feeling.I exist as energy, both in tangible and intangible ways.I exist as a seed, an initial thoughtthat gets shaped by you, contextualized.And in a way, the moment you add all of that I am to you,I also become part of you—yours, of your own making.For you become the gardener, yielding a crop.A product of a variety of factorsand the collision of our worlds.Soil and sun. Water and Earth.You, and me.Nice to meet you, my name is Andrea.