I just forgot something. As quickly as the thought formed in my head, it ran off without an opportunity for me to exchange it for an idea I'd much rather forget.
I could be bound in a nutshell and think myself king of infinite space, were it not for the bad dreams. --So said Prince Hamlet through the bard's pen.
And so too, I feel in this most disheartening manner. I no longer seem myself; neither the inward man nor outward. And then I am left to consider that what remains has always been; and therefore should cause no alarm to those with differing expectations - including myself.
To sum up - I am broken. I am the kintsugi of Edward reconstructed and all the pieces swept away is what those who hold a disdain for my spirit continue in their search
I dreamed one of those bad dreams last night - maybe just the end that woke me in a start with an unease leaving behind a shroud of malcontent, weighing me down but too important to leave behind. It's the smell today that makes my stomach churn. The smells from the dream. The smell of metal and blood. It's as strong and rank as rotting flesh and burning hair - it's getting in my mouth and I'm gagging on the metallic sting of a towel rack and the slip of blood into the back of my throat. My skin is burning with a need to scratch the healing abrasions through the salty dust under my fingernails.
The dreams have a way of rooting themselves and blossoming into uncontrolled life I'm not prepared to prune. I know the parts that stem from my own thoughts and the parts reviving memories. I recognize the strengths and weaknesses in the characters my head puts before in the paralysis of a dream.
Yesterday evening I was asked about scars on my face and with a knee jerk reaction, I explained from whom and how they formed. They are part of me. They are lined with gold and make me - interesting - they are part of my story my very un-normal and not-boring story. Sum of my parts and all that.
I forget that the scars are ugly and make others cringe. I forget that I am hard to look at and makes folks have to imagine I am different than the skewed interpretation they have of my whole. I forget not everyone is privy to my parts. But I am - all of the pieces of my inward man and outward self. I am the pieces I leave behind and those that I carry with me.
I could be bound in a nutshell and think myself king of infinite space, were it not for the bad dreams. --So said Prince Hamlet through the bard's pen.
And so too, I feel in this most disheartening manner. I no longer seem myself; neither the inward man nor outward. And then I am left to consider that what remains has always been; and therefore should cause no alarm to those with differing expectations - including myself.
To sum up - I am broken. I am the kintsugi of Edward reconstructed and all the pieces swept away is what those who hold a disdain for my spirit continue in their search
I dreamed one of those bad dreams last night - maybe just the end that woke me in a start with an unease leaving behind a shroud of malcontent, weighing me down but too important to leave behind. It's the smell today that makes my stomach churn. The smells from the dream. The smell of metal and blood. It's as strong and rank as rotting flesh and burning hair - it's getting in my mouth and I'm gagging on the metallic sting of a towel rack and the slip of blood into the back of my throat. My skin is burning with a need to scratch the healing abrasions through the salty dust under my fingernails.
The dreams have a way of rooting themselves and blossoming into uncontrolled life I'm not prepared to prune. I know the parts that stem from my own thoughts and the parts reviving memories. I recognize the strengths and weaknesses in the characters my head puts before in the paralysis of a dream.
Yesterday evening I was asked about scars on my face and with a knee jerk reaction, I explained from whom and how they formed. They are part of me. They are lined with gold and make me - interesting - they are part of my story my very un-normal and not-boring story. Sum of my parts and all that.
I forget that the scars are ugly and make others cringe. I forget that I am hard to look at and makes folks have to imagine I am different than the skewed interpretation they have of my whole. I forget not everyone is privy to my parts. But I am - all of the pieces of my inward man and outward self. I am the pieces I leave behind and those that I carry with me.
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