Wondering how I can iron out the wrinkles in my uneasy demeanour, knowing that I may have said too much. But there was never going to be a right time, not a right format or warning overture to steer the senses to a better understanding of events, though hidden, still very present. Strongly so. I am a jumble of emotions and misunderstandings not least because I chose to say what I felt, to traverse the deep cavern below disappearing into a rushing river of deep-seated sentiment, too far below the usual skin of awareness that dresses this light with a translucency that reveals only partial things, distorted blurred images of something we may recognise but too unmanifest and unspoken to be identified. I feel like the victim of my own refusal; my inability to make real what my heart desires. Did I misplace my intent, and replace it with luck and wishful thinking? I guess it isn’t important what I feel and know, it never was and may never be. Life happens alongside me, while I jostle aimlessly with the giants that inhabit a world that I have little grasp or knowledge of. I admit my earthly incompetence, like a penitent widow of a system that failed long ago, that I cling on to because I know no other way to differentiate between patterns of behaviour, and images of self, the colours of an unbridled soul too espoused in common knowledge to look beyond the confining hedge and to the horizon at the edge of the comfortable world. From time to time I catch a glimpse of a flash in the distance, the charge of atoms that draws my vision elsewhere, and for a moment I know that I am somewhere new, with someone new yet familiar; a hyperactive jolt of awareness that scissors through my usual fog, and estranged reasoning. But it doesn’t last, it passes before I have a chance to absorb the atmospheric changes inherent in the whisper of change, the adjustment of vision, and the expansion of selfhood. Then it is gone, too quick to name or give reference to.
The wrinkles in my composure remain, falling upon me like a fine gauze of confusion and annoyance. Annoyed because my waking consciousness wasn’t made privy to the changes, to the things that I would become so attached to. But this is not all me, though it is the culmination of shared experiences and visions, dreams, fantasies. Of sparks that if left would cause irrepressible fires, and cause storms to engage the skies and the physical flesh of the land within my apparent but failing grasp. I can only ride out the storm and hope that I do not fail my senses; that dry land finds me, though be it an island out at sea, and that I do not find myself alone.