"Cubism Dream"

I fear that it has been in the moments that I reach this blank page, with this blinking cursor cursing my thoughts and me, that I draw question marks in place of what I would have hoped to have been writing. My words cease to be eloquent as they leave my mind. It's like leaving the your sleeping bag at home for a camping trip; you're stuck outside, sleeping beneath the countless stars without that cushion of knowing that if you rolled over, you would still be in your little bag, and safe from an ant pile.

But.. here I am, wallowing in my figurative ant pile. It's dreadful to have to feel as if I am purging thoughts from my cerebrum. My brain should only have to work this hard whilst sitting behind a desk and computing numbers too large to make sense. Perhaps it would be easier to write about how difficult life has been lately, but I would rather save those thoughts for some later post or maybe come to realize that life really has not been as difficult as I've made it out to be.

Oh, I could possibly delve into how I have found new music to tickle my ears - Local Natives, The Last Royals, Manchester Orchestra, Sleeping At Last... but see, you don't really care. So, is that what it all comes down to? The little pieces of thought to this jigsaw-ish writing that question themselves to the point of death?

This insecure dilemma has left my writing feeling like a scene from Fight Club. I read another's thoughts on life, love and the sorts, and I realize how incredibly elementary-like my words form themselves. I then draw the conclusion that it is, probably, because I have yet to read a piece of literature that will spark my mind. The only novel that gets me to write like my mind is leaking creativity is The Special Topics in Calamity Physics, which typically leaves me walking, talking, writing, and living in a metaphoric state. It's slightly scary, honestly.

I think I just need a vacation. One of those vacations where you forget that there is such a thing as humanity, but eventually miss human contact at some point. Yes. Good thing that is what I am getting to do at the beginning of June. I'll reconnect myself with the Atlantic Ocean, the sun and its warmth - Illinois does not understand that concept - and sand hot enough to scorch my tiny toes. I plan on taking my leather bound journal (of course I have one, courtesy of Chelsea) in order that I may store my leaking thoughts.

Maybe then, just maybe, I will have rolled out of the figurative ant pile and have nice, secure thoughts to plant and to entertain.

This is our ring around the trunk.

When we wiggle ourselves out of the truth that has been imparted unto us, we find ourselves in the hardest jigsaw puzzle of our lives. Life becomes this outrageous enigma, full of mirrors reflecting lies. The worst thing about this enigma, that in our mindless circling about, we begin to believe these reflected things. Nothing short of lies to push us further from who we are and who we were created to be.

The strings that had been cut so long ago begin to throw themselves down . Wiry and frail, much like our state of mind, they reattach to old hooks that had long ago disappeared. The reattachment first shows no pain, but it is soon that we feel the pull and the tug from the power of these strings. The scissors to release us feel high and too far out of reach, so we muzzle our questions and ride the pull.

Yet, once our feet are tired of the drag and our calloused knuckles take their grip to what is going on around them, we take a deep breath. The inhale brings a refreshed life long awaited for; one that brings a charge to reach for the scissors that once seemed too far. And see, see this is where the maze begins a new opening. Our new charge pulls against the strings; a tug-of-war to see who wins. Just as the last step is about to give into the pull, our once battered fingers reach the fine point of scissors. The grip of these scissors feel as if we were trained for this already, so we cut and feel the release of tragedy.

Reaching the end of it all, with shattered mirrors and sliced feet, it is all too much to look back. Taking a seat and feeling the bones within us surrendering themselves to the ground around us, we sit beneath a tree that has taken bloom. We find comfort in relating, because just as we have felt death all over, this tree, too, had to die to give bring about new life. And each time... it's so much more beautiful than last.

This is our bloom. This is our ring around the trunk. This is life without strings, and this is beautiful.

e.e. cummings

Via Christopher Conley Tumblr:

i thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

-e e cummings