Not Aimless

A crippling sense of something unknown takes my mind on a journey that I wish would be silence instead of aching. Why does the mind like to overtake the brain? Who am I to stop it? I think I could, I think... is that the problem, thinking, too much or thinking too little. Not enough impulsive action, not enough decisive reaction.

I'm unsure of where to go, do I have a point or no? My brain is rambling on and on, my thoughts don't exist until they're gone. A fraction of me wants to sleep, the rest wants to eat and weep. But I am too tired to feel, and too hungry to sleep.

On the other hand, I get to remember I am blessed with a soft heavenly rain in my shower. One that does not tear my skin off but coaxes it gently. If that were less than relevant here, why do I say such meaningless things sometimes?

If aimlessness had a name, I would be she, she would be all that is me. I am not aimless; I just take aim and miss. I miss directionality to still hit the target from too far away. Now I laugh at my insecurity as I break it in two. A shift within, to a shift without. Without meaning, they would say if they could speak my way. Without, outside of, out there, outside, not in, but out. Action first, feeling into it, reaction, not fast, but slow, so you truly know.

I can't bear to see why one would still think of me as thine, All I am is only mine. I am a shell, not without. Like a crab that hermits within, I hide before I come out to play, then I play, which makes me want to hide away. Am I shy or just ashamed? Am I mute, or do my words escape me inwardly and never reach my tongue to escape to you outwardly. Is the reason I write the reason you read?

You actually want to hear from me.

I think I can breathe on my own, but every time I try, I choke. I can only breathe when I don't know. They say, 'practice makes perfect,' but perfect is a destination that is unreachable, unachievable, unknown. I guess I will just have to breathe into my lungs instead of into you. I like to run away, I don't like to stay, but your presence makes me want to sit and play. If I enjoyed running, I would run into you ten thousand times and again.

Did you know that love was in the driver’s seat when our eyes locked together?

You captured me and I am captivated. I have all the keys; there is no need to see. The direction is down this path, you can't see it, but I can make it. It does not have to had to be done before, to do it. You just have to move through it, and it will be yours.

A feeling is here; a feeling is there. It shakes, it aches and it keeps me awake. I can't stop to sleep, or I will lose it all. This wouldn't exist if insomnia didn't exist. All my energy comes when the sun is gone, I'm powered by the moon, I can't sleep at night.

I'm visited by a dream, within a dream, within a dream, within me. I wake up and I'm not awake, I can't see, I can only just be. But how can I be, who I am, I am me? Blind, blind, following the pew, not supposed to be here, I don't see here.

Did you expect us to get here? Was the journey a pleasure?

Was this inspiring or am I just tiring?

Let's dance a little longer, let's make ourselves much stronger. Was it supposed to be this deep?

I can go places I never knew existed, I received a map, not in the mail, but in my dreams. Fragmented, in pieces, confused, but all knowing. Moving out, moving in, I stop, I go, I read what I wrote. It makes more sense when it doesn’t make sense, I promise I would say this again. Climb high up to the sky, a tall pillar twisted like a cord brings me further than I knew I could go.

Up to interpretation, why not? It’s not like you would understand me if I spoke plainly anyway. Too plain to see the water in the ocean crash against my legs. What ripples beneath the surface? Did you bring a shovel? I’m not digging for treasure; I’m burying all the pain that decided to surface with the waves.

I can’t bury you; you’re to vast. I already tried that, many times to be sure. You keep coming up and coming for more. The feeling is always there no matter how deep I dig the hole. I can’t cover it at all.

How did I hide it before?

My feelings are the ocean. How could I bury the ocean; there is not enough sand. Even if I took all the mountains and all the land, in the end, there would only be water left. Flowing freely, floating, not slowing. Once I started feeling again, I could not stop any of it.

They say “home is where the heart is;” my body is my home because my heart is in my chest. I saw my bones in the trees once, but my bones are not my heart, so the trees are not my home. Maybe I am wrong, maybe home is created from bones, they are the structure that holds it all up after all. Maybe home is where the organs are, because without my skin I would fall apart.

My body is my home, and each intricate piece brings it all together.

I dance like fire, wild and free, I can’t be caged, but so many try to contain me. I don’t belong in a container, I’m not square. I can not be compared to a box; my edges are not rough. Yet, I am tough. Not tough as in chewy and hard to swallow. I can carry my own sorrow and still wake up tomorrow.

Damp cheeks release me; I feel it all so deeply.

This is what happens when you spend much of your time on your own. I really don’t have anywhere else to go. My body is my home, so am I ever truly alone?

I like flying, I soar like a bird. If I were anything, I would be a dandelion seed, floating off for miles to drift on down to the ground and root deep into the soil, just to do it all over again.

Stability is an illusion meant to drive me crazy if I stare at it for too long.

Each piece pulls me in a new direction. There is not just one answer, it is endless, I am endless. Timeless, the more I go through, the more there is to see. How can I even know all of me? I could forget something for awhile and then stumble upon it and realize it was right in front of my face this whole time.

Get to the point… no, I am right on target. There is no point. Can you see it now? I could read this again and only understand more. The path is laid out clear as day, but it is riddled with obstacles, it’s only an illusion that they’re in the way.

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• Challenge: Maps of the Self