The truth is, there is an ocean of words here. They breed in the shadows of my anarchist psyche and spill whenever and wherever they desire. Some hold too much depth to dissect in these reflective free-writes while others come in short and precise pieces.
Some are too dark for an extra pair of eyes. Others bear too much passion and my untamed lust. They are decaying in closed pages and restricted shelves by the shame that holds some versions of myself captive.
Poetry and prose mingle at the back of my essayist and poet mind. Their interaction creates and from there I must align my uncooperative sentences with what my chaotic headspace has captured.
Hard work I must say.
My ADHD impulses have always made it impossible to focus on any given task at hand and so I juggle intimidating thoughts whilst trying to pen the stories that are born here.
It is sad to watch me cage myself in so many different ways. But freedom also means waking up the side of my pen bearer that sees the need in exploring lengthy explanations.
I don't see the need.
Most times I feel like we (my multidimensional self) should give my readers a break. Spare them the misery and the details of it all. Then I find myself fighting myself over penning light issues. You can blame my taking everything I do so seriously.
I have struggled with putting too little or too much here. My recent seasons have leaned into digesting past traumas that I have occasionally found it much easier to hide other than pen another translucent piece.
Fictitious work has always loathed the drip of my ink and so I have cowardly chosen not to even try. I have always felt like the reader might see my scarred memories caressing the font in bold. How I envy those who can write a story without theirs creeping up the structured sentences.
How do I silence all these and still have the time to attend to my growing set of responsibilities? How do I sift through what words get to birth my next poems or pieces? Is there a way to cultivate quiet in an overthinking brain?
wambuku w.
...the land of miracles. credits to Belgian surrealist painter René Magritte. (1898-1967)
Soft leaves sprung from hardened wood
Love's a miracle
From winter to spring comes life.
