When I'm caught in the melee,
comfort seems a luxurious concept
intended only for the privileged.
I'm narrow - a sliver
a fish hook dragged through sand and seaweed.
In lack of safety,
simple survival seems the best case scenario.
In the end, I can gather what's left of me,
if anything at all, and recover.
The scattered internal world speaks ceaselessly.
A running dialogue that analyzes, categorizes
and criticizes - almost entirely myself and
my own performance
in the battle.
I hear it,
it sounds like truth.
I hear it,
it sounds like my voice.
With such consistent presence,
why would I doubt it?
It knows all that I know.
Its experiences match mine exactly.
The thoughts seem a deeply embedded and vital
part of the self.
I found a vessel I can ride, to descend,
and see what's underneath.
From this protected position I see layers
of consciousness, and as they separate
I recognize my thoughts as nonsense -
electrical firings, reactionary sparks of meaningless energy,
sent from the depths of an endlessly dark abyss.
I travel through them, not without difficulty.
Thoughts float up with urgency,
demanding my attention, in the guise
of my own voice. I discard and descend.
Under it all, I find stillness, and in the
strength I find in stillness,
I sense myself there, and I find
comfort that I generated, crafted
just for me.
About the Creator
The written word is everything. I love to read, and I love to write - primarily fiction and poetry, but I'm also psyched to learn about pretty much any topic and to share my expertise in music and music business.