“The Process” Live Prose

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. I sweat a little 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 waves.

. . . but even as I’m saying this I feel tired. I feel like I can’t. I feel damp.

How? How do I put myself in inspiration’s way? How do I call her out to find me? How do I shake hands with my dreams and make a deal? 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?” There’s a song with those lyrics. I feel people in music and I want to bond with them. I want to meet them where they met me. Where do I go from here? How do I meet them? 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?

Memoriae

When I consider all I’ve done
It weighs in with depth
Some sweet, somber feeling
Rises in my chest
I feel swathed in nostalgia
Time stretches, in a lapse
And overwhelmed I breathe
And linger on this dream
My life views like a stairwell
That traipses, wanders, walks
Without pattern, I am sketched
And hollow all throughout
But it fills me up, when I am here
And sifting through my memory
When I consider all I’ve done
It weighs in deep reminicing

Art credit: Briana Baxter

The Writer’s Gift

When Victor scavenged on the graves
New life was born electric
When Hester threaded scarlet burns
It was beautifully eccentric
If Ishmael never took the chance
And set upon the sail
He’d never know the tragedy
Yet he’d never know the tale

When Plath drew dark and deep
I understood a soul in plight
When Winston snuck to see his love
I stepped out in the night
The scenes great Lewis sculpted bright
Were never seen before
How could imaginations touch them
If no one passed the wardrobe door?

When John had lost his sight
He gained a gaze beyond
As Atticus saw the plight
He risked to mend the wrongs
If Eugenia had to cross the line
To get her story through
I would like to hold my fame
With those who held it true

There is a special kinship
Which Carrol pledges from his star
If you seem caught in madness
The best ones usually are