| The anxiety builds and I write it out, I write it out... Words
swim in my head and crush against the rocks of verbal limits.
Thoughts flow faster that words, they drown before I grasp them.
What is the origin of these thoughts, these words that won’t let me
rest. I want to reach out for another consciousness because I
can’t stand being imprisoned in mine. It’s like a room one has
lived in their whole life, not much changes, more useless, scattered junk
accumulated over the years. I do some dusting from time to time but
mostly I’m sick of the same four walls dressed with circulating
questions, doubts, and ambivalent truths. Someone else’s room
always looks more enticing, because you only get to peak through the key
hole, you can’t see their clutter, you can’t see they are just as
suffocated as you are. We live most of our lives on the periphery of consciousness, immersed in sensory awareness, pressing needs, trivial demands. The mundane is depressing when not infused with the fullness of the moment. Than again why would you want to be mindful while washing the dishes or taking a shit? What divine meaning can one find in throwing out the trash? Some are afraid of naked existence and seek comfort in uncomplicated deterministic truths; some carry the burden of meaning overload. Could the world be so sensitive that when I gently touch a leaf today, someone will smile tomorrow? What if everything is always “in intimate conversation with everything else”? How would one live their life with the acuteness of that knowledge. The physical plane feels so sluggish, so slow. Continuos bliss is impossible in this plane of learning through suffering and loss. I feel as if I can’t get attached to anything since it is never mine to keep, the eternal flux of life will sweep it away leaving me only with myself. The true connection is only in essence, essence that we unfortunately cannot perceive. What a cruel punishment to feel emotions in this suspiciously interconnected universe where nothing is static and everything is a reminder of how painfully separate we are by the function of consciousness. How sad to float amidst, but alone. I touch the body of another wondering it is only an earthly blanket for the soul, aware that I can’t imprison a soul, much like I can never lose a soul connection. Yet still I somehow want to hold onto this other body and preserve the moment that I feel slipping through my fingers at the very allusive now. To capture now. To fully embrace something that passes faster that a blink of an eye, seems there is not enough time to descend into this vague thing called the moment, a shattered peace of the hologram of time and awareness. Why learn everything that I can conceive knowing, why can’t I just flow through this experience like thoughts flow through my head, so swift and gentle… I can’t feel them. This earthly form with all its physiological implications of feeling and thought, of addiction to certain feelings and thoughts makes the conception of spirit a nuisance. If one could settle for the limitations of the body and mind without conceiving of some perfect energy form one is at the core, life would be much easier. Perhaps less mystical. The unwritten paragraph haunts me with its promise. Does it know I’m not ready to fulfil it? Please feel me Please grasp me Please see me through the maze of you own perception How do I know you touch me Not distorted Make me valid Let me see in your eyes The truth of who I am M. M.
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