broken silence

Every now and then I remember with the sharpest of pangs that I never really chose to write, and it was never anything I dreamed of doing, and who would anyway? I have to write to survive otherwise I just eat myself alive. I can feel them prodding me, words that need to purge themselves from me. They build up and they drag me down, they clog my mind, they drain my body, they make me physically and spiritually ill– then I sit down and I realize why I’d been so uncomfortable in my skin, with my organs, with my heart, with my brain. I thought it was something biological, but it’s far more esoteric than that because we are far more esoteric than that

I often don’t know what to make of life… sometimes I do, but then I lose it. Lately I’ve come to say there’s a sense of poetry,… not order, not chaos, just poetry. Nothing makes sense, but it does. And when it happens it just feels like something has been completed and for a moment everything does make sense, just for a moment I feel connected to everything and it brings a kind of ecstasy that can never be repeated

But everything in between can feel like I’m just stuttering and don’t know what to say or wouldn’t even begin to know how to frame such a word if there even was one to frame. And the phrase would be void of meaning and I wouldn’t know what I meant the second it left me. Yet at some point I just have to surrender to the fear of nonsensicality

lately I’ve been rather too silent and I only just realized I’ve allowed so much to build up within me like a dam refusing to give, so stalwart like it’s strength to refuse to be broken, like it’s not just fear of what’s to come when all the pieces lay astray. Ultimately I have to allow myself to be broken because sometimes we have to be broken to see all that is within, all the stale and withering parts squirming around not knowing where to go when we wouldn’t let them see the light of an open world. I let me break and for a time I feel weak, I feel lost and exposed, scattered and disoriented like all the cells of what I used to be could take any shape and I wouldn’t know which they’d choose. But I am the one who has the choice. I let go of who I thought I was or what I imagined was to be, surrender me to something beyond, the beauty of knowing I’m unfinished and there even is something more

and I have a sense it’ll be something magnificent, whatever it is, but I don’t know for sure. I know we’re all just going about life blind continuously searching for reasons, losing reasons, losing sight, losing self, losing loss, finding beauty in the loss, surrendering to what there is to gain that we never planned on attaining. Something always keeps us going even when time is so fickle and as I say, nonlinear. It’s not like we can plan for anything, but that’s just it… it’s not chaos, but it’s also not order. It’s something else entirely, something beyond words and I have a feeling we can all feel it, the lifeblood of the universe

I realize we’re all in a period of transition, harsh transition. Twelve months ago none of us would have thought we’d be here and now all I can think is that the world is never gonna be quite what it was. We as humans tend to become attached to what we’re accustomed to and so we can’t ride that lifeblood in all its tides and currents, sudden hangs and turns. All of this feels like chaos, actually, it feels like the end of the world. But what happens when we all strap in ready for the killing blow and it never comes? They say it’ll be some rogue, monstrous asteroid, a viral “pandemic” that has so far killed off less than .01% of the Earth’s population, alien invasion, time collapsing into itself, the sun suddenly vanishing without warning, the next ice age, nuclear warfare, biological warfare? Maybe we’ll all get cancer, it seems to be in everything nowadays anyway. Or maybe we’ll all just drink the laced kool-aid because choosing our death is a much less harrowing expense. Well, the truth is, parts of us are dying and parts of us are purging, but those are the parts of us that were already necrotized into worthlessness and ready to be amputated lest they spread. You can only wrap it up for so long and pretend it’s functioning

Sometimes things need to be broken so one can see what was always there. We were already dying a slow death and now make way for a new kind of life. There’s a new line for us to write, a new book, a new beginning. Not a word of it in English or any Earthly language. We’re children again, but there’s a freedom in that. We’re here to learn how to form our fingers and our hands to a new system because the only one could never support us. When we see the brokenness, to the human mind, it registers as chaos, failure, death because we were taught time is linear when it’s not

if time isn’t linear, that means there is no end. What’s true in a second may be wholly untrue the next. Two truths which contradict can exist simultaneously. Truth may not even be a relevant concept, not as relevant as experience because experience is sacred and experience transcends words and can never be repeated because it is ritual

I don’t really know where I’m going with anything here but I’ve truly been feeling physically ill and I really did just figure it out tonight that the reason why is because this is my lifeblood and without it I’m just draining myself away

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