A life cannot be defined in linear terms, whether measured with a piece of string from A to B, or with words strung together in a pithy line, or one word statement. A life cannot be given value by words alone, or the ambient temperature that stirs the senses and the hormones that reveals an aspect of self rather than an understanding of same. What senses you have that drive you to speak, to speak for part of you that you hardly know, perhaps should, but don’t, under the pretences of ‘understanding’ are suddenly errant and lost as the moment passes. Whatever meaning words may have, their meaning evolves and loses itself in translation, to become something new and not unlike the whisper upon the breeze that transcends itself to become the wind. You dare speak of my life before it has run its course. You tell me of a glorious end when I have merely begun, will always begin anew. Is it me that misunderstood, or you that has yet to learn that ends do not exist?
I have met my match many a time over, more than I wish to think about. I have enjoyed some, suffered others. Lane awake thinking of what tomorrow may offer instead of creating a better pervasive perspective. I am at the centre of all that I am, all that I ever am, with whichever hat I happen to be wearing, and whatever disguise I remember to clothe myself with. New eyes, new hair, new teeth, no teeth. New thoughts, new ambitions, new soul, old shoes.
The blue eyes I see are far up in the skies, stars shining like jewels adorning the midnight robe of a warrior, of an untamed but precise and cognizant energy that pervades my body like a universe carried in human form. Those blue eyes that are tattooed darkly upon my body like a map of the heavens within which is encoded the DNA of everything, of all that I know to be my existence, my form, my face, my many faces, and voices to tell you that you cannot encase me in lines that have meaning, with sounds that have lines. There is no forward, there is not progress, no way to measure this, that, or anything that is not already part of you, in a way that cuts or makes division of vision, or comprehension of entirety. A perfection and a wholeness that you already carry and feed within you, care for, cherish and desire to share with your many complete counterparts.
My soul is not an empty box waiting to be filled with sugared candy, made only for me, of delights that only I should savour. My soul is, has never been, will never be, empty, because it is full of me. It is my soul, divided by none, and for none save me.
My banded arm is the strength of my will, my unsharpened creativity that surges through me like a wild river bursting its banks as it carves its way from the mountains to the sea, transforming in its wake a landscape that is ever new and changing. I carry within me the wisdom of the ancient tree-gods, of the synaptic charges that pulse and branch through my veins and the core of what I am, and that compel me to BE, without the need of A. Without the alphabetical exuberance bestowed upon me by unthinking mouths, by wandering fingers that seek only to entice and caress, to bend and manipulate, and win badges for services rendered.
I am not angry, just passionate about that which you so blithely give away with coordinates and formulaic exactness that have no true bearing, that bear no truth. There is no truth, just fantasy made manifest in a multitude of ways, varied and exciting and as disposable as the air that fills our lungs, and is again released with automatic and unthinking dismissiveness.
What I don’t have now, I do not need, otherwise I would have it. What I do have now, is what I need until I do not need it.