editing / emotions / life wounds

Dear Younger Version of Me,
I forgive you. Darn-it, sometimes I really wish you hadn't started me on certain paths that I am still trying to rid myself of. I realize now that you did that because of ____________and____________ and though that was really f***** up, I have compassion for you now. I do not see you as broken or wrong, just human. I love your humanity, I cherish your imperfections, and I want to accept you fully, so that I can feel like a whole person, rather than this self with a shadow I'm trying to shake. Currently, I am a little afraid of you. I've worked hard not to let the choices you made back then dictate the rest of my life.


I guess there comes a point in our lives when we realize that everything we own, every emotion we hold close, tells our story. There maybe sometimes comes yet another moment when we can’t look at all of our stuff (emotions included) without feeling all of our yesterdays puddle and threaten... to flood if we dare look down. For me, I have tried not to look down the best that I can, but my eyes seem to still sneak peeks downward at times.
I’m packing up my emotions again, putting them into the box I bought to store them in, in the back of my closet, and I’m struggling with all of them. I’ve too many emotions held onto, for way too long, and too big a tale to tell and some very sad chapters that I don’t want to remember, and yet, can't seem to  forget.  Which emotions do we hold on to, and which ones just dig deeper into our wounds?
 ........ a trail of footprints behind me........

the...Art of Caring

Feel like I should be playing a piano every time I begin to blog. Every word I speak opens my wingspan, hollows me, just a little more, so I can reset my life, scouring for answers in the rubble of my interior.

Observing the world today with a calibrated need of disinterest, wafting esoterically into someone else, some other time and place, joyfully fulfilling my romantic tragic role in my own screenplay. Consciously aware of my nakedness in the breeze, pausing at details in my shadow, reabsorbed by the notion of my own body, no one knows of the thought I am drinking from. Raucous and wild, breaking near pandemonium, recognizing a primacy to my own need, want and desire.

An alien in the fog ponders the wonders of life. Bartering with herself and god, turning tempest thought into justification. Wondering if sweat left on the pavement isn't just a bit of bleed from old wounds, a sacrificial offering as legs lean forward against her own sea of ritual awakening. Convincing self of something so much more, as secrets hold tight within her lips.

Don’t we all just bleed a little from other people’s wounds? Is that not then, the art of human caring?