In the thick of it.
Why does a human being seek?
Is finding the losing of oneself?
She said sudden understanding is in the revelation of not understanding.
She said, from “her tomb”, that when she’s not writing, she’s dead.
These words were spoken from the grave. I know the feeling all too well.
And now I emerge from mine.
Such an exhilaration to discover one who knows, even when they’re found in an inevitably somber state.
A natural somberness reflects truth.
Those that pretend only pretend the walls aren’t caving in.
I’d prefer the walls to cave in on me.
Cave in on me and show me the truth!
Good or bad, I haven’t the energy to care. And I lament those that do.
Such difficulty to allow into one’s life. Such writhing.
Just let the damn walls cave in!
Speakers of truth are often difficult to understand.
Especially when they don’t care to be understood.
Especially when they’re so masterful to know that any conscious effort to be understood will destroy their truth in the process.
Such texts must be deciphered, unencrypted.
And only one of the same ilk has the key. Somewhere. Perhaps in the back of a drawer, unmarked, forgotten, bent.
I wonder if I should speak thy name, but I hesitate to do so. Like it’s a secret only I’m supposed to know. Something that was written for me. Though I know this is not true. Such things are written to live.
Yes, to live.
Sometimes I get so caught up in conquest that I forget to do so.
And I’m not so sure it’s worth it.
There’s no guarantee.
And when there’s one to “get it”, there’s one to get in the way.
In truth, this fundamental is yet to be fully understood. And that very sentence is an understanding in of itself.
If I can only truly live on the page, then it seems my fate is to become the madman locked away in his writing room, until his dying days.
Sometimes you just know.
But the greater part of my journey has barely just begun.
And this vision I shall not speak of here, for I have done so earlier in secret, with purity.
Such things will be revisited and revealed when the time is right. I have no desire to force the matter.
I have no “willpower”. I cannot go against my grain. I haven’t the patience.
There was a time when I did. And I’d struggle.
Selfishly so, as I thought this was the way.
Now I know that it is not.
And while the motive may remain, it’s with a wildly different understanding that I surrender.
Things will be as they will.
Let the chips fall where they may.
I have made peace with this, somehow (the desire to explain just disappeared).
I look up, and wonder, have I died?
Have I, having left the page, stopped fluttering in the wind as the leaves on the trees ahead?
I will tell you a secret:
I do not care about the trees.
I cannot even see them.
Rarely do I see the natural beauty of nature.
I know it exists. Truly, I do.
But I haven’t been able to truly see anything for a long, long time.
I could be staring out at a barren wasteland right now and it’d be all the same to me.
Is this sad? I do not care about that either.
I like storms. I like the rain. I like violent waves crashing below my feet as I peer into them, alone with the wind.
That’s the last time I remember truly seeing anything. And in truth, nothing is what I saw.
Emotion overcomes me.
I know this writing is coming to a close. And with it, so is the perfection of the moment.
I know that, in leaving it, I’ll have willfully sentenced myself to death.
So that I may return to my tomb, once again.