There’s something within me that’s been accumulating everything I’ve ever encountered, experienced, endured, partially recalled, and I’ve been adding to it again and again not minding my own honest growing capacity,
There’s something within me that’s been accumulating everything I’ve ever encountered, — the tender things and the painful things and the things I experienced was more about my interpretation of the event than the event itself,
There’s something within me that’s been accumulating everything I’ve ever encountered, and I kept out of by reducing and reframing everything that arrived before I allowed it past the threshold where I would actually stay,
When I attempt to create something new from what I possess, am I drawing contents of what is within me, or am I relying on more comfortable version that I curated long time ago,
There’s something within me that’s been accumulating everything I’ve ever encountered, it’s stranger than I’m used to admitting, especially on ordinary days when reaching out doesn’t feel like it costs anything important…
I’ve been filtering what reaches me for so long in between the parts of my inner world, arrived intact and those that were reshaped by the specific story about the meaning of things,
I’ve been filtering what reaches me for so long in between the parts of my inner world, which parts of it will be allowed to land and which parts will be quietly redirected away,
I’ve been filtering what reaches me for so long in between the parts of my inner world, by protecting the conclusions I’ve already reached all incoming information,
I came across something that allowed me to linger long enough to uncover its true purpose—to enhance my existing understanding of myself in relation to the world around me,
I’ve been filtering what reaches me for so long, I cannot tell whether the wall I built was a decision I made consciously or something that grew so slowly; I only noticed it was there when I started wondering what was missing on the other side…
The stories I’ve pieced together from the fragments have begun to feel less, like narratives and more like the ground beneath my feet, the walls surrounding me, and the ceiling that limits my reach, warning me against encroaching on space beyond my rightful claim,
The stories I’ve pieced together from the fragments have started to feel less genuine and complete; where each fragment was part of a larger picture that I need to build,
The stories I’ve pieced together from the fragments have begun to feel less, I have become the lens to evaluate all the new material arriving, redirected before it has the chance to complicate what I have already decided I believe,
If I were to hold the story I tell about my identity, origins, and capabilities a bit more loosely than I did yesterday, what would be the first noticeable change in my morning routine
The stories I’ve pieced together from the fragments have begun to feel less, and the gap between them is where my creative material lies, waiting to be discovered…
I lost my childlike perception of things between the first time I’m seeking for an explanation, enduring the confusion long enough to learn a lesson for any other way,
I lost my childlike perception of things between a single moment of decision and the gradual accumulation of naming enough things and surviving enough seasons to still believe I had time,
I lost my childlike perception of things between the more efficient and armored version that could process the world faster by caring less about the exact location of my destination,
What’s something I encounter so often that I’ve stopped noticing it, and when was the last time I was genuinely surprised by something I thought I understood
I lost my childlike perspective on things somewhere between surviving and becoming. I was building something new alongside what the surviving had created for me. The wonder was never truly gone; it was simply waiting for me to cease choosing as they were always meant to coexist….
Watchwords:
What I carry is stranger than I admit,
The filter protecting me from the revision I need,
The story became the floor and the ceiling,
Texture slows you down and I had somewhere to be,
Wonder back in without unknowing the surviving...
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
