I originally put this on the Lovebuds blog, but it made sense to cross post in here. I'll try to elaborate later.
Sometimes it's good to be isolated I think. Sometimes I wonder if this is real at all, or if I'm having some long-term dream that rolls on like a movie. It doesn't feel true at times, fake like watching kids dressed up at halloween. I imagine this "reality" as sort of a thin veil that hangs over my vision and changes the images to something tainted, distorted; like when you are sitting in a car and it's raining and yet you have no windshield wipers on. Eventually the water makes a solid barrier on the glass and you can see through it, but the shapes become warped and move as the water shifts...ever sliding down without you being able to catch it. Sometimes I think I'm crazy. I think crazy people are closer to knowing the truth of things than we know. I feel crazy sometimes, in those moments when the feeling of being caught in this layer comes over me. I feel the truth peeled back from me, like it was the skin of a banana. And I am raw and exposed, vulnerable and waiting to be squished between the greasy fingers of some ten year old child wanting a snack. I admit this here because you don't know me. And those who do know me will most likely understand. And if they don't then it's alright. There are more parts of me that I don't understand than those that I do. Inside I am dark, and what's more is that I like that darkness. It's not a psycho murderous darkness, but one that wraps around me and lets me taste freedom. I am at home there, and it's not a bad thing. I can feel peace, happiness, love... all of those exist there; yet in another form. An older form. It feels ancient, like it was taking my soul back to the moment of creation. I suppose I am crazy in many ways. I sound crazy. But it's in those moments that I feel close to realizing what I was, what I'm meant to be. Sometimes I hear someone talking to me, calling my name. And while I know that they are speaking to me, that the "name" they keep repeating is that which is supposed to be mine; it doesn't feel like mine. I hear it, I know it... but it doesn't fit me. It sounds wrong somehow; cold, lifeless, fake. It doesn't belong to me. I am not that one. Still, I don't know who I am. The name that was given to me is hidden in that darkness that I love so well. I wonder if others have that darkness, and I wish I could ask them. But it's not something that you talk about over dinner. It's not something that you chit-chat about with friends. I suppose it's that darkness that makes me feel alone more than anything. I realize what I do; the ways that I punish myself and hold myself back. I'm not blind. But those are things for this lifetime, lessons for this particular moment. And then there are deeper things, questions that I must ask and yet that I cannot form into tangible thoughts. They go beyond the simple things that we are in this form, this life. It surpasses physical, emotional, logical things. It moves in wisps of hazy thoughts that come only on the verge of sleep and dreams.
I know these things, and I don't know them. I suppose everyone has the same thing in one form or another. After all, we are all the same when you get down to it. The same, and yet still I feel different. Why is that? Yes, I can feel you reading now and thinking how strange I really am. If only I could paint the pictures of my mind, you would understand.
Or at least you would try to.
