it’s all in my head. i know that. it’s all up there. contained in a tightly organized. overly scrutinized. arbitrary box. a shiny gloss of veneer encapsulates the gnawing thoughts. binding thoughts that perserverate. over and over and over yet again. suffocating. they make many facets possible and yet hinder so much more. the singular hope of change comes from the minder. the keeper. the me that watches this box with disagreement. but she’s not a sifter. not good at sorting the helpful from the harmful. and certainly not strong enough to toss the weed of my cerebral garden. no, she’s just as passive as i. letting the box take the helm. watching it continue its unencumbered path. all in my head.
this is what sick looks like. and she is looking for sinus relief in the bottom of some tasty herbal tea. been battling some major bug this last week. trying all of my best home remedies — cannot recommend chili peppers enough! seriously, the next time you fall ill start kicking up your spices. those immune-boosting, flavor-enhancers are just what the sinuses need to flood open. found myself making a spicy stew, exclaiming that it was too HOT, and then adding even more chilis; when in doubt add more! while teas, spicy concoctions, and more bed rest than a bed bud helped; i have turned to western medicine to kick the infection that will not depart my abused nasal passages. cheers little white pills! here’s to you give these bloody germs a strongly worded eviction notice!
our lives held together by panes of misconceptions. projections to satisfy enough. pen us behind partial enclosures. shattered shells of existence. designed for reconstruction over and over. to move around one only creates another. an endless cycle of entrapment. hopeless distractions until one can see beyond. through the cracks. there. lies open platforms of freedom. and their vulnerability. all we have to do is look.
Out racing the charge of thy enemy. Sounds of endless conflict echo in my wake. Battle torn, I emerge. The protective armor molting from my frame. Puddling the path like breadcrumbs. My headdress shedding its adornments to the wind. Each feather earned in conflict, now marking the sky in strokes of calligraphy. I am left to wander. Exposed. A single marker remains. The symbol of wars before. Of the struggles within. And of hopes to rise again.
Day shares the stage with her sister Night. The two tugging on the setting sun. I find myself a rocky shore. Swept in sheer blindness of the external world. Unable to navigate clearly. But open to guidance. Replacing the sun’s glow. My own beacon in a fading sky. Heart radiating. Glowing. The only light needed, is the one from within.
Coming off a few days of illness, it feels great to have a solid dose of endorphins from my silver sidekicks. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of exhausted, burning muscle fibers. Or the growth of callouses from palming weights (yes, I would probably benefit from gloves). And the excitement of seeing the body fire into form. There’s a magic in the connection between metal and skin. A bond that just feels right. Whether in a home, gym, or waiting at the bus stop; one can never go wrong with pumping some iron!
Adaptation is designed for the betterment of the creature. Yet this creature feels my newly advanced sense of emotional control has the opposite affect. Or at least I didn’t realize just how highly tuned my feeling stomping skills had become. While locking down frantic irrational reactions during a highly stressful time of crisis is valuable in that moment; it is not a technique I wish to employ to every situation. But it seems to have become the default state. Like poor posture my emotional core has learned the habitual nature of tabling, or even glossing over entirely, emotional responses. As with most practices, I have perfected the art of not feeling. And though growth is inevitable in life, it doesn’t have to come at the cost of my being. I need to stem from the adaptation phase into a refined evolution — one where I can dispense my cool-calm-collected skill when needed, but not allow it to be automatic.
Days of intimacy are consuming. Fall deep into philosophical conversations of futuristic wonderlands, kind of consuming. Twisting down paths of tangential discussions that only lovers dare. The molasses mattress making escape impossible. Where the world is blotted out by a face. One that should realistically be exhausting after ten years, but still finds a way to exhibit the most disarming smile. An entangled embrace resulting in time travel’s recipe. Briefly escaping from an imposed reality. To our own space. These days, I have missed.