I paint tiny paintings. They keep getting smaller, but then they group, mix and match into something else.
I may be afraid to write.
The paintings flow out of me, so small, so unexpected, so demanding with unique messages I can't read but can't ignore, either. They trace back, they pull me out.
I may feel too weak to balance the who's of who I am,
I tip sideways into expected
practiced
trapped in the way things are
every move a risk of something less satisfying
or at least, potentially uncomfortable, or painful,
or inflicting of pain,
unintended consequences, cruel whip-lashes of having chosen
wrong.
I may be afraid to write.
Words expose my knowing as what it is: complete bewilderment.
I'm a little afraid to try, to start, and find myself alone, abandoned, the story fled from neglect. To stand naked, my gift withdrawn.
I may be afraid to write.
Maybe letting myself know
what I know
will make it impossible to keep
choosing what I choose
though it wears the edges of my soul away
into the tide
so why, again? why choose?
(shall I let go of the wheel?)
I look away from the futures flashing past my vision
Soul cries when I starve her, but when she's fed. she is relentless
and what she says just doesn't jibe with the consensus reality.
Potentials are congealing. We're nearing the end. But what is near, anyway?
And who is we?
And what end is not a beginning of something else?
I reach for breath
I stretch with breath
I wish for breath to keep me home.
