a long day.
alot of thinking.
remembering, reminding myself of what it feels like to create.
trying to hang on to a few fleeting moments of inspiration.
it's hard to grasp and, instead of letting go because of the terror of infinite possiblity, cling more tightly to the reality of boundless expression.
in truth, that is what i've been seeking for so very long now.
it seems an eternity since those last few weeks in chicago. those days of ending and an expectancy for conclusion, a chance for true expression of so many things
hope
regret
love
hate
remorse
failure
all those abstract emotions that only find actuality within the act of letting them go.
travelling back inside my mind's so very limited memory, i find myself lost. all the instances of divided pathways, all the diversions that i allowed to become the coal black walls inside my heart.
those walls need to be scaled, not broken down. whether i like it or not, they are a part of me. the rooms within them should be locked, but not buried. in experience we find true understanding. within regret, we find humanity. ourselves, our mistakes, hindsight teaching us that which is truly ourselves.
this maze i have created is not impassable. it's no labyrinth. but it is there. i cannot simply deny its existence and imagine i stand within an open field, gazing at a sunset within a serene soul. the turbulence, whether i love it or not, will not leave me on a whim. i have built and wasted so much time upon the wish of a whim. i can no longer resign myself to the acceptance of mortality and therefore failure. i cannot regain my past. those choices which i have made i must own. no amount of imaginings or dreamings will erase them. i cannot live in this constant need for a guide. this is mine, this ruptured and segregated life. if i cannot find a way, no one will find one for me. it seems so strange that i turn to words to find a way out. or perhaps in. words words. endless, waiting in my fingertips, standing on my tongue like an expectant diver awaiting the plunge into forever. it is in the words that i can gain my infinity. once they leave the fingers, the tongue, the lips, the mind, they become a part of existence outside myself. that is all i have ever wanted. to be more than i am, to affect all that i can. to be remembered. to have made a mark. perhaps that is where my own personal peril lies. i yearn so fervently to escape my own sphere, but at the cost of never exploring what lies within it. too great a cost. too great a loss to simply accept. i cannot continue to refuse the mirror. for all the hours that i stand in front of them, i never really allow them to work. i find myself looking at my life as a filmmaker. setting scenes. tweaking lines. choreographing every movement, but not living. not a true experience. only a staging. only a feeble attempt at control. a life on film, onstage, in performance. when will i begin to walk out of the lights, i ask myself. when will i finally step offstage and past the audience, away from form and imagination, beyond what i beleive i should attempt. what a distance i have made between myself and myself. it feels like a ditch somedays. rutted and deep, with every wrong move lying within it, peering back at me with sightless eye. i haven't let myself cry in such a long time. i've not let myself be quiet for too many raging symphonies of nights. my dreams are far too real. i yearn for them, because within them, i am free. free of doubt, free of reality. and that is where i fail. this desire for a movie, something that is scripted by someone other than myself. i'm afraid of taking the wheel. shaken and cowering. the real wheel, the one in that grey fading corner of my mind that still remembers the days when i wasn't afraid of myself. when i wasn't constantly seeking approval, a scrap thrown from the table of someone else's expectations. i remember them, if i try.
if i try, i can regain them.
and if i finally let go
where would i live
between the curtain and the mirror
clinging to the script
though i know i'll forget most of the words
and if i let myself be, in the end
where could i live
amongst the memories but without
the pain, the open door
scraping along with both eyes open
the left so much clearer than right
and the right to
fall frequently
stabbing into reality with every
fighting breath
the signposts turned upside down and lying
breathless on an unmarked road
that is where i would paint
my self portrait
muddied and dusty face down but free
understanding less than i would like
feeling without a shield
a filterless realm
far-reaching fingertips
dipping themselves back into
the wellspring i covered so long ago
like a fall out shelter, so desperately
needed
and never
opened
alot of thinking.
remembering, reminding myself of what it feels like to create.
trying to hang on to a few fleeting moments of inspiration.
it's hard to grasp and, instead of letting go because of the terror of infinite possiblity, cling more tightly to the reality of boundless expression.
in truth, that is what i've been seeking for so very long now.
it seems an eternity since those last few weeks in chicago. those days of ending and an expectancy for conclusion, a chance for true expression of so many things
hope
regret
love
hate
remorse
failure
all those abstract emotions that only find actuality within the act of letting them go.
travelling back inside my mind's so very limited memory, i find myself lost. all the instances of divided pathways, all the diversions that i allowed to become the coal black walls inside my heart.
those walls need to be scaled, not broken down. whether i like it or not, they are a part of me. the rooms within them should be locked, but not buried. in experience we find true understanding. within regret, we find humanity. ourselves, our mistakes, hindsight teaching us that which is truly ourselves.
this maze i have created is not impassable. it's no labyrinth. but it is there. i cannot simply deny its existence and imagine i stand within an open field, gazing at a sunset within a serene soul. the turbulence, whether i love it or not, will not leave me on a whim. i have built and wasted so much time upon the wish of a whim. i can no longer resign myself to the acceptance of mortality and therefore failure. i cannot regain my past. those choices which i have made i must own. no amount of imaginings or dreamings will erase them. i cannot live in this constant need for a guide. this is mine, this ruptured and segregated life. if i cannot find a way, no one will find one for me. it seems so strange that i turn to words to find a way out. or perhaps in. words words. endless, waiting in my fingertips, standing on my tongue like an expectant diver awaiting the plunge into forever. it is in the words that i can gain my infinity. once they leave the fingers, the tongue, the lips, the mind, they become a part of existence outside myself. that is all i have ever wanted. to be more than i am, to affect all that i can. to be remembered. to have made a mark. perhaps that is where my own personal peril lies. i yearn so fervently to escape my own sphere, but at the cost of never exploring what lies within it. too great a cost. too great a loss to simply accept. i cannot continue to refuse the mirror. for all the hours that i stand in front of them, i never really allow them to work. i find myself looking at my life as a filmmaker. setting scenes. tweaking lines. choreographing every movement, but not living. not a true experience. only a staging. only a feeble attempt at control. a life on film, onstage, in performance. when will i begin to walk out of the lights, i ask myself. when will i finally step offstage and past the audience, away from form and imagination, beyond what i beleive i should attempt. what a distance i have made between myself and myself. it feels like a ditch somedays. rutted and deep, with every wrong move lying within it, peering back at me with sightless eye. i haven't let myself cry in such a long time. i've not let myself be quiet for too many raging symphonies of nights. my dreams are far too real. i yearn for them, because within them, i am free. free of doubt, free of reality. and that is where i fail. this desire for a movie, something that is scripted by someone other than myself. i'm afraid of taking the wheel. shaken and cowering. the real wheel, the one in that grey fading corner of my mind that still remembers the days when i wasn't afraid of myself. when i wasn't constantly seeking approval, a scrap thrown from the table of someone else's expectations. i remember them, if i try.
if i try, i can regain them.
and if i finally let go
where would i live
between the curtain and the mirror
clinging to the script
though i know i'll forget most of the words
and if i let myself be, in the end
where could i live
amongst the memories but without
the pain, the open door
scraping along with both eyes open
the left so much clearer than right
and the right to
fall frequently
stabbing into reality with every
fighting breath
the signposts turned upside down and lying
breathless on an unmarked road
that is where i would paint
my self portrait
muddied and dusty face down but free
understanding less than i would like
feeling without a shield
a filterless realm
far-reaching fingertips
dipping themselves back into
the wellspring i covered so long ago
like a fall out shelter, so desperately
needed
and never
opened