I write to capture stillshots of myself in my thoughts onto the words which they form. And if there's something I want to think about, maybe.
For eyes once cups of cold monsoons
His warmth is a burning blanket
Of a thousand Indian suns
Upon the barren terrain of hardened knuckles
His satin hands flow as rapid creeks
From a head once a mound of mourning
His words raise a hill of hope
I suspect there are two of me
Yet I am guided by one
Who knows herself but does not know the other
The other keeps herself hidden
She knows herself but all she knows is forbidden
I know not of who or what is forbidden
But I know of forbidden
I now know of the other
I know she is here, inside of me
But I cannot discern her true properties
Perhaps the me I know is the me the world shaped
She has values, ideas, stubborn principles
But the me I do not know is the part unchanged
She also has thought
Though it is really just mere feeling
Some of this feeling the me I know made its principles
Some of this feeling the me I know rejected and cleansed
But it is all still here
Locked in the unchanged ether of the other.
In the depths of the aged souls
Comfort lay in the ancient hands of grandmothers
Wrinkled, made unconstant, by the weatherin of time
Of Earthen tree bark lined with years passing
And dusty brittle pages laden with faded ink, tethered holes
Everything I do is authentic. The words I speak in candid thoroughness and directness, the smiles I pull at the trigger of an authentic friend's jokes, the way I hold no filter in my mind and no shame for all the gibberish that flows out of my mouth as a result are all as real and genuine as my soul. It's only all spiced with a few white lies here and there.
Everything I do is not shallow. Though, I also sometimes laugh about others and judge others.
I do not concern myself with caring. To care about anything would be to step down from my pedestal of nothingess to the deep abyss of normal human worries. I refuse to look down on anyone, and I refuse to change the look in my eyes when I have seen someone fail.
So instead of being happy in my perfect idea of self, I am instead realizing I may be the most untruthful,...