I’ve been playing with words, these days. Pulling context-based imagery together with timing. Strong in one, weak in the other. I suppose what I am trying to do is cram my internal contradictions together. Putting my own letdowns in my face. Calling out my own inherent inconsistencies. Trying to be more, across the board. Aware, intentional, focused, intense.
If I can create a blackhole with the pull of gravity I compel — I’d be down with that.
It’s the season shift, everyone says. And they are most definitely right. I’m floundering where I should be standing erect. Falling where I should be strong. Bending where I should not break.
It’s not a bad thing. Just uncomfortable. Looking for the remembrance of ways I was like guidelines into who I can become. It’s as yet unclear how the snowmelt runs down the sides of my personality. New creases were put there by the year away, by a new name and a new place, by new people with new ways.
Newspace, I could say.
A galaxy, just forming. The worlds are not wholly formed. The sun still bursting in explosions. The clouds of gas still nebulous. But the codes are there to create a diversity of life. I know it. I feel it. Seeds unfurling. Roots uncurling. New shoots testing new ground covered with the rot of the winter, gone.
Anxiety stirs in my images of death and beauty. Hope and failure. Love and chaos. Everything is a dichotomy. And I, the heart that resists everything.
Tell me how to love, and I’ll show you how you’re wrong.
In the winter rush, this was a quiet art.
In the blare of street lights and a late evening sun, it seems garish and illmet.
Like these words with variant definitions I keep mashing up together. Attempts to align some broken shards that in the spring seem less like seeds and more like debris. Perhaps, they are still fertile, and some sprout will spurt forth, and I’ll see what was lying dormant inside of me all this time.
Maybe that is exactly what I’m afraid of.
To find inside the core of me the seed of a monster instead of a true heart.
A myth instead of reality.
A lie instead of truth.
A non-existent ghost where I thought infinity had spread itself.