The clouds scream, yet there is no rain.
A yellow-breasted bird dips to the ground. She plucks something with her tiny beak and then lands her yellow-breast silently upon her young.
The ground parts: thirsty.
I stand in front of my window watching.
Something inside me is throbbing.
It feels like it is my heart. But it is somewhere in my stomach.
I'm standing still in front of my window. Watching.
But I want to run.
My hands want to scratch. But my skin is not itchy.
Not from the outside, at least.
My fingernails are homesick for dirt, for painful release.
But I have been taught to be clean.
The sky cracks.
Birds fly.
The land is still. Patient.
I stand inside my "home".
What is this?
These cold flat tiles don't comfort the contours of my feet.
These walls protect me from something I'm not afraid of.
This roof keeps out what I want to let in.
I stand in front of a thin glass pane.
I stand in front of a thin. glass. pain.
I have been taught how to live "inside here" but I come from "out there".
We learn to build boxes
and fill them with things
we invented with minds
that have been shaped "inside here"
And while our spirt is still out there
we have tricked ourselves to think that somehow
it has stepped inside a box
made of walls that are rigid
confining
constraining
solid
Yet weak.
And. I cannot breathe.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Monday, April 14, 2014
I'm Not Your Reality
I'm really sick of getting close to people.
In the beginning it's all really sweet. It's like a flower garden that has just bloomed. All you see is beautiful colors. Butterflies flapping their wings and crisp green edges.
It's not a lie. I know. This does exist.
It's just that in the beginning we don't notice the weeds that are creeping up from down below, desperately trying to choke the stems. We don't see the speckled marks that taint the beauty of the bright green leaves, the bitten petals of the flowers, and the plague that threatens the entire ecosystem.
I do not know what is better.......
The innocent beauty of the beginning: when you don't see what you have not been shown, and you don't look so clearly either. And your quietness, and your blindness, and your ignorance are a blissful oblivion...It is perfect and lovely and good, yes. but it is not the whole truth...
There are always weeds. Always. And the worst are the kinds that sit beneath the surface: buried in the soil, strangling the roots with all their might, while the world goes on smiling at the flowers.
Or, is it better to know, To look close. To see the whole truth......
The bacteria, the fungus, the invaders, the parasites: constantly testing the patience, the strength, the beauty, the life of the flora. And you see it all- attacking from every direction. And you want to stop it, but you know its not your place. And you don't want to see it, but once you have opened your eyes wide enough it can never go away. And the worst part is that WE created the pesticides.
I'm really sick of getting close to people.
The bottoms of my feet are calloused and rough. My toe nails are uneven and un-pedicured and often embedded with dirt. My legs are scarred and spotted with freckles. My skin is imperfect and my hands tell the stories of many sunny markets I visited alone in many foreign countries; leaving a past that I couldn't really make sense of behind, only to find that it still exists when I return. These scars won't go away now. Somehow we think we can do that to the emotional ones. But they still emerge from time to time. They still exist somewhere inside me, just like the ones stitched on my skin.
You would only see those things if you looked close. If I let you come near. If you wanted to.
From afar I am photoshopped, painted and decorated.
In your mind you have edited me. In mine, I have created an image. Here, you see me before you, standing like a flower, performing like a butterfly. But, I assure you, you are color blind. We all are. The light that passes through the spectrum only reveals the colors of the rainbow.
So, don't come close. Please. Not right now. My darkness does not amuse you. And I am tired.
I don't want to decorate.
I don't want to be what you want me to be.
Silent. Passive.
I can't give what you want me to give you.
Affection. Elation. Perfection.
Not always. Not now.
Not ever.
I will always be a dirty flower.
A clumsy butterfly.
A determined weed.
An insect-bitten petal.
A crooked stem.
I'm really sick of getting close to people.
Because I'll never be the image we have created.
And I will apologize now for painting you a beautiful picture above my dirty canvas.
This is what I have been given. and this is what I have created.
I will never be what you expect me to be.
I am less and I am more.
Terrifying and Strange.
Beautiful and damaged.
Struggling and thriving.
Depending on the sunlight.
In the beginning it's all really sweet. It's like a flower garden that has just bloomed. All you see is beautiful colors. Butterflies flapping their wings and crisp green edges.
It's not a lie. I know. This does exist.
It's just that in the beginning we don't notice the weeds that are creeping up from down below, desperately trying to choke the stems. We don't see the speckled marks that taint the beauty of the bright green leaves, the bitten petals of the flowers, and the plague that threatens the entire ecosystem.
I do not know what is better.......
The innocent beauty of the beginning: when you don't see what you have not been shown, and you don't look so clearly either. And your quietness, and your blindness, and your ignorance are a blissful oblivion...It is perfect and lovely and good, yes. but it is not the whole truth...
There are always weeds. Always. And the worst are the kinds that sit beneath the surface: buried in the soil, strangling the roots with all their might, while the world goes on smiling at the flowers.
Or, is it better to know, To look close. To see the whole truth......
The bacteria, the fungus, the invaders, the parasites: constantly testing the patience, the strength, the beauty, the life of the flora. And you see it all- attacking from every direction. And you want to stop it, but you know its not your place. And you don't want to see it, but once you have opened your eyes wide enough it can never go away. And the worst part is that WE created the pesticides.
I'm really sick of getting close to people.
The bottoms of my feet are calloused and rough. My toe nails are uneven and un-pedicured and often embedded with dirt. My legs are scarred and spotted with freckles. My skin is imperfect and my hands tell the stories of many sunny markets I visited alone in many foreign countries; leaving a past that I couldn't really make sense of behind, only to find that it still exists when I return. These scars won't go away now. Somehow we think we can do that to the emotional ones. But they still emerge from time to time. They still exist somewhere inside me, just like the ones stitched on my skin.
You would only see those things if you looked close. If I let you come near. If you wanted to.
From afar I am photoshopped, painted and decorated.
In your mind you have edited me. In mine, I have created an image. Here, you see me before you, standing like a flower, performing like a butterfly. But, I assure you, you are color blind. We all are. The light that passes through the spectrum only reveals the colors of the rainbow.
So, don't come close. Please. Not right now. My darkness does not amuse you. And I am tired.
I don't want to decorate.
I don't want to be what you want me to be.
Silent. Passive.
I can't give what you want me to give you.
Affection. Elation. Perfection.
Not always. Not now.
Not ever.
I will always be a dirty flower.
A clumsy butterfly.
A determined weed.
An insect-bitten petal.
A crooked stem.
I'm really sick of getting close to people.
Because I'll never be the image we have created.
And I will apologize now for painting you a beautiful picture above my dirty canvas.
This is what I have been given. and this is what I have created.
I will never be what you expect me to be.
I am less and I am more.
Terrifying and Strange.
Beautiful and damaged.
Struggling and thriving.
Depending on the sunlight.
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