Soundtracking: Shearwater. Run The Banner Down
Sunday, July 22
Three thoughts passed through my head simultaneously, and it literally shocked me to my core. I am usually VERY in control of what passes through my head… and for the first time in a while I wasn’t. It makes me anxious and uncomfortable. Sometimes I wish I don’t see the things I’ve seen, hear them and understand them too well. I get people, what we mean behind what we say, what we hide from.
Life and death. So certain. Those two things. I was born. I had a mother and a father. And I will die. A Daughter, with a mother. And a Father. Certain….
My eyes are glossy. I don’t know why? They always are.
Imagery. There was a star, shooting over the moon. And a page a man had hid. He saluted and didn’t know what he was saluting to.
“I’m going through a mental breakdown, Meghan”
“He and I talked and the feelings are reaffirmed, though nothings changed”
“Meghan, I need your help with something, Im being an idiot”
I hate it when people make me think of things I was doing a damn well job at pushing away. Bodies are evil, the flesh is evil. It tricks and it manipulates and it controls. So then how can it hold something so pure and so clean as his spirit? If we are all made in his image, aren’t I clean? I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything.
I think the number 69 is my good luck number… I laughed. Of course it is.
I can’t trust anymore. I try, so hard. Against that nagging that’s always right, that says Meghan, be detached. Your good at it. Stay away. … I did unbelievably stupid things, they say that’s how you get to where you how. I guess that how I managed to be this ‘voice of light and reason’
I’m a labyrinth of secrets
And yet I feel so hypocritical. History repeats itself, doesn’t it? She loved an addict, she was broken and torn, her life was never full. She had dreams and they were ruined. For love. If that’s love I don’t want it.
And I didn’t do any better.
But beautiful things can still grown through the cracks of our mistakes
I think I have a terrible need to fix people, maybe because I can’t fix myself.
Foods lost its taste, music is starting to sound the same. Art feels like a mimicry. ….
But nature… theirs something alarmingly paragon to nature. A flower. A simple petal or a stem. And I feel this … surge, this wavelength of something more venerable and light… I wish I were a part of it sometimes, something so beautiful. Beauty, what is that? Truly, pray tell me what is beautiful anymore?
They say the veins in your hands tell how old your soul is…
If that’s the case, mine is old as dirt! …. Like a man sitting on his porch, staring at the sky. Immovable, irresolute, just waiting for something. For his life to end, for a new journey to begin. Non responsive to hope, too pessimistic for justice, too biased to believe proof…
I like to pause, to breathe back the stillness, To shut my eyes … everything seems like it moves too fast. I never have enough … perhaps I stir up bedlam for myself.. we are all our own devils, yes?
I used to have an old music box, with a ballerina on the top. I literally watched it moving for hours… Even nostalgia doesn’t feel the same. A large library, filled to the top with books, all of them telling me what to do and how to become one with yourself. How to love the world free of prejudice. Full of bullshit.
Sometimes I want to cut my tongue from my mouth. So my words will never hurt. Or make you think. Strange… I can take my introspection leading to realizations, but to think of someone else having to feel because I made them, irks me…. I wish I were blind, so I can learn to trust my heart. I never do. And I wish I couldn’t hear… So I could love without judgement and condescending..
…. I’m a labyrinth of secrets…..