Saturday, January 15, 2011

The Weathered Life

I live a weathered life. I'm weathered and worn from experience after experience. I've been tossed, turned and torn to pieces but somehow I manage to continue in this life. I've been walked on like a welcome mat but I'm still here. I'm not complaining about it, just placing it somewhere new.
I try to think of excuses for those who hurt me but why? What's the point? I think most people have good intentions. I think circumstances change situations. She had a lot of classes. She was busy with work. There was someone else she's been talking with. She doesn't have a lot of time. Sometimes I really treat myself with very little respect. I tear out a section of my heart knowing it will grow back. Do I do this to others? Then why should I do it to myself.
The main reason I had for writing this post was the new artwork included in it. I'm not really down. I have feelings that run the gamut. Don't run to me with words of sympathy. Still, I don't want to be ignored but it's so hard for me to say. It's easier to write down. I struggle to write myself up. But you, my friend, keep your head up.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Somewhere a Blank needs Filling

It's like there's something stirring in-between my shoulders, somewhere between my ears, at the space between my knees. But I can't point it out. It's a loneliness, a discomfort, and a knowledge. It's a spark of anxiety but a hint of excitement. I can't put the proper words in order so that I may describe it. I can't remove it because I can't find it. It's a loneliness that feels sheltered. It is sheltered and safe but trapped and restricted. It's not that I'm trying to hide it but rather that it is trying to hide me. It's trying to convince me I'm someone else and if that doesn't work it's working to make me that person. It's writer's block for a specific topic but an open mouth exploding with words through the hands. Perhaps it is a writer's clog; not everything is shut off. Some words, some ideas, some emotions still escape. But if here is where they go who is the sponge to soak them?
I'm not the best at expressing these emotions in picture, moving or otherwise. My face may not be the proper place to look for true feelings. These words allow me to paint something true although I'm not exactly sure what it is. I do feel a longing to be more than alone. More than lonely. More than one. But I also think perhaps it's not time yet. Perhaps I'm not ready. And over in my mind run words to another. Over in my mind run words not yet spoken. Words and emotions longing to be dispelled from the inside and poured over to another. Certain people may wish to be my canvas but it seems only a specific few will right now do. There aren't exactly tears but a knot wells up in my chest. It hasn't figured out where to spill. After several times of exploding thoughts my being has covered each hole with its own weak adhesive. Each new time the thoughts must find a new hole to escape. When a new cavity isn't found a weak one is busted and my head falls down. But not outwardly. I try to stay up, at least where they see. But that's not always easy on the inside of me.
The small shake of anxiety is built at least partly of obligation. Partly of tasks that have yet to be done. Is that not one of the grand mothers of anxiety? Incompletion?
"Look out below!" cries my mind to my heart.
And, "look out above!" comes the reply from my heart.
Still they're not sure if they're arguing, so neither am I. They're just exclaiming what comes to them. They're warning each other of potential disaster. They're working to decipher what really is going on. And so living as the puzzle that these pieces make up, I am left wondering how much is in the cup. Is it half full or half empty? Or has it just blown up?
I'll leave you with that you soaker of sentiment. In time, I'll go back to understanding the immediate. Maybe someday I'll come back to this stage to ponder and gaze. Perhaps when I do so, I'll understand what I feel in this age. But until then I'm off to places not known. I'll be out and about without even goin'. Perhaps we will meet, perhaps truly a treat, but for now I am off to fill in the blank.