All the flaws
All the issues
And scar tissues
would be a misuse
Identical. Nonsensical. Vast and varied too. Fractured stories. Faded glories. It's all there within you.
We try to paint a picture, make an image, right a song.
Covering over all we've done that could be perceived as wrong.
Wearing a mask, busied in tasks, we hide from ourselves.
Hidden in boxes, taped and sealed, scattered across our shelves.
Being me is not a game of selection; redaction. Divided in fractions. Neatly compartmentalized and driven mad. There's a chaos in connectedness within ourselves we fear, and so in relationships our conversation-ships we routinely steer: Away from the uncomfortable. Away from the true. Like most of an iceberg, hidden beneath blue. Our silent lips sinking our ships in a sea of inauthenticity. I'm not the voices, I'm not the choices, I'm not the things that I see. Yet it all contributes, expresses and pays tribute to the unique essence of me. Why do we hide why do we decide why do we deride why do we why do we why do we. Do we. We do. Do we? Do me? Can I really be? Is there a we-me, a me-we, a me that exists beyond the we? Even if this me is wee and has yet to fully be where and how I can see I believe this me/I/more-and-beyond really is and definitely can be. Can we? Can I? Can me? Have I canned and conned me and we so that what we see is not though it seems to be?
The cans, the boxes... open.
The feeling, the reeling, the congealing, the peeling... is and is being.
no map and
no end in sight.
What3ever I am
whatever we are
we are neither wrong nor right.
We are. Aren't we? Are we? Are? Is? Am?
We belong. All of us. All of we. All of me. I belong. Belong. Everything. Everything belongs.
I try to redact and I try to react in a way that defends "me," in a way that pretends "me." In a way that ends "me."
and I'm no less.
End of story.
So it begins.