I am a paradigm
Broken from static
Experience cracks like a prism
Broken from my labored sleep
I let myself be liminal
I let myself arrive
Swift synthetic release
My authentic peace
I am on
And compelled with myself
Slipping coats and facades
I am clear like water
I am the steel iron in a straight silver pipe
I am the place I am always trying to be
How am I supposed to feel? Where should I be at this age? What can bring me fulfillment? Achievement gives me fulfillment. Respect. . . and being a part of a community. I find making other people happy fulfilling. I like being appreciated. I like feeling valuable to others. I want to be special. I like to express my “special” ness. How? How can I let people know what’s going on in here?
I have been given inspiration by others. Musicians make me feel things. My heart beats when I feel it. My senses light up a little and I get high. I feel a tiny piece of how alive they must feel when they hear their own voice and expression cutting out into the world. I want to make my cut. I want to cut open my own hard shell and let myself out. I feel so dormant and faded.
What would I ever do if I lost that part of myself? If I have ever dreaded something, I dread forgetting how to feel.
I feel angry.
I feel tingling on my skin.
I want to punch something.
But I also want to lay down and dream.
I want people to see who I am
. . . but that doesn’t make sense because I’m so private.
I want to create meaning.
Creativity and expression give me something to live for. Why do I feel so drugged about sharing myself though. Do I have anything to give? What difference can I make? I want to make an impact somehow.
. . . but even as I’m saying this I feel tired. I feel like I can’t. I feel damp.
How do I put myself in inspiration’s way? How do I make good on life’s promise? Is the question the destination? Is this process the art?
I believe in the process.
I’ve always loved the phrase, “Where do I go from here?” How do I translate what it means to exist as me into a hearable, manifestable expression? Is anyone listening to hear? Or do I just need to do it, so I can hear my own voice?
In this incorporated world
My existence melts a measure
A faint gray lense tinges my vision
I am powerful, but must stay delicate
In every shift, remain exuberant
In every path, bring my luggage
And leave my own prints outside my world
I must resist the adaptation
That sterilizes progress and renovation
The art I am must follow too
And leave its trails upon this world
Art Credit: Mattie Larsen