unwriting prewritten words

The mind. Wrapping around itself.
The existence of being surrounded by being.
An ocean containing a river. Already underwater.
Who’s streams flow together and a passerby would not know where the river started and the ocean ended except that the ever present current would drag you in faster than you could begin to ask the question, “can I tell which water is more dangerous?”
The ocean. The mind.
Stuck in obedience to the rules self created.
New rules not yet rewritten in body or soul.

One would say to try again.

We could say it’s a forever failed plan.
To rewrite. To paint over the canvas, to delete the file,
to white wash the stained walls, to pack up and move on,
to be put in witness protection… from our trauma and past
to forget “the plan” by learning again.
Who we are.
Who we now realize we were always meant to be.

Relative Phases

A description of darkness seems too dark in the light.
A perfect picture of light is too bright in the darkness.
The answer seems not enough with questions still lingering.
The questions seem too simple when the answer is given.

Reality on the surface seems to pull everything together.
Once things are realized the known becomes unknown.
In life we are unable to comprehend death.
In death are we able to comprehend life?

Ends and Begins

The script for my life

ABC’s 123’s

Counting and reading

Writing and learning

Checking the boxes of an ordinary life

First steps, always happening.

Old beginnings, new endings.

A cyclical pattern, unknown was the start.

If I could find it would I understand?

If I could map it out would I better plan?

Could I understand the way my mind works?

Could I grasp something solid with the trio contained plus liquid and gas?

Trinity of self. Mind, body, spirit.

Only now I begin to truly hear it.

My body.

A breath in. A breath out.

each one ends. each one begins.

a cyclical pattern.

Of course there was a start to this… There will be an end.

But unknown.

I know the start of many happenings.

I know the end of many.

But why do I concern myself with this darkeness of the unknown?

Is the unknown always dark?

Is there such a thing as known?

Perhaps light comes from being unknown.
Perhaps light is defined by something other than known or unknown-ness.

Perhaps trying to define this in some form of poetical prose will not help.

Perhaps. A cup of tea.

The breeze outside my window.

Hearing children laugh in the distance.

Smelling a candle and seeing its dim light fade.

Perhaps a realignment with my true self.

The one I have hidden back in a forgotten room.

Waiting until it is safe to surface.

For the lights to be off so that I cannot be seen.

But cannot my true self be this one I have created?

Is the true self only the best self?

It’s probable that this is another unknown.

Maybe myself, being what it is, needs growth.

Maybe there is not a good or bad or best or anything at all.

I wonder if there is such a thing as just.

just being.

just resting.

Believing that I don’t mark off every check box

I don’t type out all of my thoughts

I don’t finish every book or watch every episode

I just am. I exist. I am safe. I am loved.

To be. Alive. Fearing death more than fearing life.

Or to lack fears at all.

The softest blanket taking over the place of a usual lightning cloud

The silent room taking over the screaming mind

a calmness.

a peace.

the start.

the end.