On living.

I was chatting with a friend this evening about how I simply cannot view films with realistic depictions of violence, because I have physical reactions to them. She has a similar “thing,” and has been that way most of her life. I think mine spiked when I first began exploring BDSM. I KNEW, then, what it was like to be kicked, punched, whipped, slapped, cut, etc. This coupled with an actor’s capacity to subsume oneself to emotion, to have the body mimic experience so that “truth” becomes a bit more malleable, so that the tensile strength of “reality” is reduced, so that one is able to detach from the simple complexity of “reality” and see beyond truth and past matter into what really matters and that so much bigger than what our bodies transmit to us through our various senses.
I wondered at how difficult it is to talk about these things. How much I fear being “the weird kid” again, and how hopelessly chaotic it is to attempt to give voice to things like spirit, emotion, dreams, process…

 

My truth? I feel emotion with my skin. I hear with my blood. I cry when I hit cruising altitude in airplanes, because it is so beautiful. My eyes touch, and are touched, by energies I’m only beginning to understand. I feel closeness with virtual strangers, and kinship with people from first glance. I talk to my God, I walk with my demons, I play in the warbling mire of shit that scares the fuck out of me. I listen, in the dead of night, to waves of thought and tendrils of spirit from those with whom I would share my soul. And I Live.

 

I feel too much. Think too much. I well near drank myself to too, too much only to be pulled back from that edge by a larger fear, and that was of leaving behind friends and loved ones who would be so disappointed in my abandoning hope. Despite fear of success, I vowed to do whatever it took to live honestly, to walk clear-eyed. And I Live.

I have seen a wild whirling series of epiphanies, some small as lightning bugs and some Brahma bull-dozing my psyche all driving me towards ineffable truths about myself, my selves, who we are, what I need to do to manifest EVERYTHING I carry within. Sometimes the scope of it rips the skin from my back and leaves me shaking and groveling in fear because it can’t possibly be ME who is feeling so much that even giving voice to it feels like it may well destroy everything around me with its beauty. I don’t know if I can hold it all. I shouldn’t have to. I’m bursting my own seams and shining through is the light of a thousand lifetimes, all ready to reveal a truth so huge it fits into the palm of my hand. It threatens to burn me away with its vast, elusive complex simplicity. It terrifies and draws me. The edge of a cliff I’m pacing every moment of every day I walk this earth. And I live.

 

I know I need. I know I want. My body longs for the paradox of liberating oppression, of pain so profound it moves me past the elegant strategy of flesh and bone and blood into a realm where I am surrounded by beings…by creatures? By people…who walk this same song I walk. And though I fear for my sanity sometimes, because I want everyone to hear me and believe how beautiful and precious and wonderful every. Moment, of. Pain can be, and how much I relish even the most staggering blows because the cessation of pain, the ebb to the flow is the keenest sweetest blade for paring me down to me…and I fear that my message will pour out in shouts & barks & howls & screams so raw I will tear my very voice away before I have relayed my message. And I live.

 

Soon is coming that day when I will see how to call out this song. Soon will come the day where that one with the ears to taste and the eyes to understand and the minds to hear and the tongues to think about these things will open themselves to me, and I to them. And then you’d better watch the fuck out. Because then I will live again, and forever.

 

And. Then. Of course. then I read over what I’ve just written and know how impossible it is to truly translate mySelf into words. But they are what I have. Some have music. Some painting. Some people go so far as to make smaller people so that they can translate themselves into the future…tell them their stories, and they may live on that way.

 

I have words. I smash them against my heart and see what tumbles. Out. I shake myself to see if anyone else dares respond with their own joyous, painful ululations. I wait. Quietly. With exceeding patience to be taken, unexpectedly, to somewhere where I may whisper my secrets into the earth, the sky, the mouth of my lover. And I live.