Funnily enough, unraveling my words like a red carpet for an exquisite audience, for eyes that will step upon those intricate threads of thoughts… it makes me more conscious. Well, of course. My writing has always been a solace, an escape, a way for me to somehow dive into my own tunnel of wonders while everything else disappears. In a way, it was me regaining my own control. Growing up, I was surrounded by such noise, that I could feel rumbling around me with moving lips and tall people, but… that noise bounced against a wall, the glass entity that has cushioned and barracked me for a lifetime. those were the moments I felt most alone. So I turned into a language that I had zero limits with—words flew and pranced across the page, and imagination was an endless source of art and magic. Back then, I didn’t know the difference, and today I still don’t either. Magic is in the mind and art is in the creation. I guess I didn’t realize I was somewhat of an artist myself, too, whispering into the air words and creatures and stories that I dreamed were floating around me, and I scrambled to grasp them before they fell through my fingers like stardust.
I do believe that if my ears weren’t hollow caves with extinct creatures, if they had heard the seeping, soft strands of guitar that my father played… things would be different; I would not be this soul I know today. Instead, I sought for trees and hiding places, and I felt the dizzying sensation ebb and flow up my veins as I watched my father strum those buzzing strands, barefoot and carefree. My mind zones in into not exactly visible space but in an endless chattering of thoughts, that I still struggle to identify—it’s like my thoughts exists in their own language, not English or ASL, but… emotion is a part of it, too. song lyrics and words and heavy weight, and feeling light… it never stops.
If I simply wrote down the words that constantly come into my mind and chain, they will create sentences. As I get in tune with those momentary flickers in my abstract universe, I just might never stop writing. and those random chains of meaning might not make sense, but, eerily, they also do.
Wondrous seeds blabbering fluffily along hooped tendrils of marbled graves, and braided goldilocks leaps breathlessly in a red dress, jamming angles within breadths and depths of universal luminesce that glows through her bedroom curtains.
corrupt laughter glittering along shadows, twisted and thorned, and air sharply pauses as abrupt darkness of white dwells as I close my eyes, foretelling dizzying lights of city and gravel, screaming patrons. scrawny throes of the powerful weaklings presenting artificial knowledge in arrogance.
I am closing my eyes, resting my head on my silky pink pillow, rapping away. I’m enjoying this.
Ladies befuddling, escaping, to mountaintops, belting cries of desperation. Faraways are invisibly clouded by unexplained evils misguided in a notion of modified analogy. Above all, below thunder and overpowering jupiters, striding along the shore someone once upon asked “why are we here?” “who has control over us?” what is this entity above, and why are we powerless? and those beings on the forgotten land continue to plead the same.
Sighs and song forever glides among the terrain. High heeled confidence raps on the piano of splattered paint… red, tricking down the street, blown away like leaves turned into cigarette dust, and nobody bats an eye. Skin thuds on cement, as a tree gives away in a silent forest… despite the paparazzi of a thousand eyes, headlines melt away and off we go into places we have to be. forgotten, the ghosts of bright butterfly souls flicker away.
Sighly she yells timber atop pearled glint of apple’s eyes and chock-full suitcases of feline thorns in a rose garden, pulled upwards. Brisk ropes chart along the waves with a shudder and the background line of shadowed possibility seems to scream, silently, gaping onward and toward to the monster behind her… it was her the whole time, the devil hidden away in the sheets, only wanting to go to heaven.
Ladybugs chitter and black lines of bent metal and dancing women sprint along the endless cycle of wine glasses, beads of dew… beloved boxes storing gems of dark secrets, and the future hazes away with fright and terror only told by movies we gather with our imagination. Someday someone will say “I knew it”. And it’ll be too late, and we’ll be ghosts, or mad, or terribly rich, or perhaps robotic with laser beams of bloody murder.
Madmen. Perhaps, blue, fly. Ecstasy, and oil, and the smell of smoke, with angels framed in the corner, this feeling of slight motion, a soft breeze tasted by the skin, pores swelling, and absorbing… auras, and daisies, and forgotten names… this glove of a battle shifts here and there and beneath it all holds shuddering nightmares and eternal falls.
Mirror, mirror, down the hall, who art thou? You don’t seem like me, what a strange, big creature you are… hairy, and mighty, with strong shoulders… the color of your skin… beastly, perhaps like that prince cursed? it’s a memory I just can’t find, something that makes me afraid. Who are you, are you not known to me? You cradle me to sleep and tell me it’s going to be alright, and holding my knees rocking on the cold marble I can’t remember, or I don’t want to, but that mirror, mirror on the hall haunts me to this day, and I sometimes yearn… for an apple, for a momentary escape, to become all black where this goes away and I join aurora borealis into the deep unknown and unimportant.
Breathing through my nose and beckoning lips to greet the clouds, I attempt thoughts of yoga, and sunshine, and flowers, and whatever filtered and yellow pops up on the insta and aims to be inspiring, promising… I hold and dig deeper through the gray matter, the deep files of hidden notions and find horses in the horizon and me holding hands with my mother, with her warm, reassuring green eyes, a constant source of love and hope. making things go away, just for a little while. Apart from the soul sister of mine, bonded since inception, sometimes I find myself missing home. The warm enclosure of nothing but being a mere child in awe of the goddess I knew as my mother, and the smell of lavender.
I used to be such a romantic. Well, I still am. I saw things in a rose-colored way, but also was hurting, so terribly, that I wrote about evil queens, suicide, desperation, and heartbreak, in my journal as a mere 11 years old. Not much has changed in that aspect of spilled paradoxes in my writing. The more I get in tune with my mind, and whatever whirs inside—I realize just how much of a multidimensional creature I am, such as is humanity. Pain and glory. That mixture is what the earth holds in its hands, and I cannot shake it, because it is embedded in us. So we must learn how to hold it, too.
