….i didn’t remember writing this, but i found it in the drafts from earlier this month… some days ago, some weeks ago? time ago.
past writing-therapy, from the ghosts of me
exposure anxiety is painful. if i allow it to keep her in i deny the wants and needs that we crave for a means to live less lonely. if i continue to push / expand / rubber-band-stretch the boundaries, there becomes more openness to opportunity and joy but at the inevitable expense of creating more fear, upon fear upon fear, and at the risk of that fear overpowering crushing squashing – the OVERBEAR, biting at the porridge, biting at the bowl with teeth and claws. how to break this cycle of the one way wall wheel game? oat-paper recurling, growing rough corners in itchy layers.. it seems in my nature to create another scary thing every time i do a scary thing so that the scaredy thing doesn’t have to tremble alone; so that she can live in the dissociate-distract realms bouncing between the uncomfortables so as not to look at it, so as not to catch a glimpse, or else the mirror-glimpse may glow over like a hungry grinning sun-lamp entrapping us in mirrorland-paralysis. but to avoid the fear-chasing and to forever sit in untranslated comfortable, is no longer the more comfortable option. to avoid the uncomfortable, for me, is to never be free. and i am so uncomfortable. painfully so. the loneliness resonates where held love wanted to be. unarrived syrup. runaway stirrup. collected reflections of all of the mes.
and the fear is not a fear but the feeling, carried. and the bear is not a monster but a warm thing worried. and the mirrorland bends from the uncertainty of human storying. perhaps they are reaching out to be secured and released instead of over and over unovered and sobered and –
.;.;.;.
*she drifts*
*non-verbal float-swimming in the bubbles of the mirror-mists. there are little shells that open up into streams of singing essences, and then they close away again, gently reburying under soft sand-blankets…*
sea rolls down her body like unspoken ocean. sea rolls down her face, like drawing a wave. sea rolls down her being like unboated potion. sea grows. sea holds. sea knows.
sea rolls down the body like unspoken ocean. sea rolls through space, seamerges, sea touches, glitches, watches..
a shell comes, somewhere
and it’s out and it’s in and it’s out
a shell comes, somewhere
opened, hatched, impostered
and then they close away again, untouched fragments scattered segments
colours closing turning –
WE WERE SO PEACEFUL AND NOW I HAVE A LOUD DISTURBY HEADACHE – why so abrupt?! – and i am angry, so angry, so calm-to-angry angry – there are whistles and music outside on the road and i am so done with it, i know they likely don’t want to be there either but –
;
….and thats as far as i got, before disturbance from the outside-the-window-Loud
i’ve been too beurghghghh to catch up with this
i still am too beurghghghh to catch up with this
i will appear at another moment, probably with another thing i forgot i wrote
and i must say thankyou, for reading. by reading you make me real. i feel so seethrough these days. ghost broth vapoured, simmering to the soul-land stonesands, like a whisper from the weeds.
Sumita: Unjumbled 