I ran for the hills

There are images burned into the back of my eyelids that are inescapable; propaganda with mixed messages and confusing catch-phrases. Some shapes are as familiar as old friends and others inaccessibly abstract. Faces and hands, eyes and expressions, the reversal of reality and image, a creation of an identity, the loss of another. I thirst for meaning and long for hope, I search for sublime 'somethings' and attractive statements. My thoughts are a montage, a collage of recycled ideas and reborn dreams. Inspirations wash up on the shore with debris from shipwrecks; little nuggets of sea glass hidden throughout the tragic collection of bric-a-brac. I am learning to part my ribs and open the cavity to vulnerability; I am learning to see and be seen. Eyes lock and in that moment of connection a million different thoughts and feelings are poured from tear duct to tear duct, leaving us with a feeling of both life and emptiness, love and fear. Your heart is an enigma, mine is a chromatic scale that tumbles uncontrollably forward until it trips and lurches into bashful dissonance. My immediate endeavour consists of moulding the blushing charades into comfortable conversation and contemplative company. There are none so distant... don't forget that. The silence is profoundly tender and passionately affectionate.
Is it wrong to believe in a beautiful lie if it helps get you through life?

Perhaps this is an unhealthy method of leaving things behind, but I prefer to think of it as a valiant journey towards sanity and stability. Buy a painting from a friend, sketch the world around me, search for capital T truth, eat too many cookies, distance myself from some people, wear shorts in winter, travel everywhere by bike, laugh and cry at make believe, learn to play the ukulele, and maybe I can begin to feel fully present and engaged in the here and now. My quest lacks direction but I pray for purpose and meaning in each step that I take. I try to forget what is behind and strive for what is ahead. I try to open my wings, but like that one angel I struggle to find the strength. Will it take a snowstorm tragedy, donuts, a pickup truck, a UFO, folk songs, and two young lovers to rediscover my ability to take flight? There are only questions, strangers, and old stories. I long for a fire in my heart and for my restless bones to run feverishly towards a future.

He offered her the world and she said she had her own.

1 comment:

  1. hold your own, know your name, and go your own way.