I like to write when I'm in strange moods;
When I'm very acutely aware of what it means to inhabit my own body, for instance-- preoccupied with neither past nor future, but rather unshakably present; mindful.
My thoughts and feelings are ripe at these times; ready to eat; I overflow. 
Joy, sorrow and ecstasy sit just beneath the surface; I could laugh or cry at any moment. 
Not because I'm PMSing/a woman, but because my perspective has zoomed wayyyy out. 
I see myself and my surroundings as minuscule and yet crucial pieces of a bigger whole: I look around my apartment and see not walls and furniture, but the purpose of those things within the grander scheme, of which I know very little but speculate very much, and very often. 
All cognitions are scattered in the most peaceful way... I drift from one to the next delicately, not missing the last or anticipating the subsequent. 

What languages do we all speak?
Love
Hurt
Regret
Pride
Triumph
Music... art... food...

We are all human, and what extends further-- we are all infinite. Human or not, dead or alive, we each have an indestructible essence which will continue to exist even if we, in our mortal forms, do not. It is this very energy which should make us feel inextricably connected here on Earth. We should love the shit out of each other. We are all we have, and we will not always be around. 
Think of someone you dislike. 
Now think about if you had been born into their body, with their mind, lived life under their circumstances and shared their experiences.
You would be exactly like them. 
You would have done precisely the things that they have done. 
This is the basis of compassion: The ability to understand that we are all different and yet we are all the same. 
We must do everything we can to embody this concept; it is the only thing that will save us. 
I like this quote by O.G. of empathy, Mother Teresa-- 
"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."

xx

Artwork by Cameron Gray

another meadow of dirt and rocks

He said he wanted to take her to the meadow so that they could talk but he 
knew and she knew that the meadow was not much more than a 
lot full of dirt and rocks.
So they sat on their hands and stared at the sky,
and it was then that she felt something stuck in her eye for 
the hundredth time, 
but she wouldn't let it out because 
she couldn't because 
he would like that too much,
So she broke the silence instead:
"People hurt people and that's 
okay because maybe 
you've hurt me, but I've hurt you too. 
I just... I'm afraid I can't stay. 
Not this time. Not today.
Today I think it might kill me if I stay."
He looked at her with questions in his eyes; they swelled 
in his pupils, his irises like tiny waves and she
remembered then how much he reminded her of the sea; the salt; 
it burns but you love it; 
it soothes your soul 
but if you stay for too long it can swallow you whole.
She wanted to keep swimming but
it was dangerous, and she had never been very good at it anyhow. 
Blink twice;
Refocus. Dry off. She was a bird. 
His head was cocked to the 
side a little bit now,
mouth agape like he might speak (though he never would).
She thought it was nice when he did that,
because he looked like he cared and maybe he did;
Maybe they all did. 
But that would have to be another discussion for 
another meadow of dirt and rocks.
Right now it was only him and 
her and an amber sky,
and the premonition that she would never fly again,
at least not with him.
And all she really wanted was to have 
her wings back so she 
said 
Goodbye.


(Sometimes I write poetry)--
xx

6/4/13

This is a journal entry that I wrote last June. I have quoted bits and pieces of it on my blog before, but I felt compelled to share the whole thing:


I'm lying next to my friend now in her comfy silk sheets. It is 2am. She is asleep.
I feel so peaceful in this moment. A suspended reality wherein I'm both alive and dead at the same time. 
The moment we are born, we begin to die. 
I'm fairly certain at this point that life is about love, which can take many forms. 
Most people think of love and think of soulmates or their soul loving another soul in a breathless, blissful eternity. 
While I know that this love exists, it is not the only kind of love, and not everyone finds it. 
Love is everywhere... People, nature, ideas are all full of it. 
Right now the love I'm experiencing is for life in general-- 
for the fluid motion of every element and being in a cycle that was calculated perfectly before the measurement of time even existed. 
Nobody sees life. 
We see us. 
We see our own personal world that we created in our own head and tainted with our own jaded eyes. 
If we could open our eyes like tiny doors and step through to the outside, we would find an unknown world-- one we all share. 
We are on the same planet in a physical sense, but mentally we are all galaxies apart; 
We are tied to faulty stars that bleed selfish bile; 
a bile which has infiltrated our physical planet and kills love on contact. 
I want to see the big world. The real world. 
The one that society hasn't vandalized with its filthy myths and tactical distortions. 
Sometimes I see this world. I am seeing it now. 
But it's hard, if not impossible to live here always, because this world is virtually deserted. 
The longer we have spent on this earth, the longer we have learned to lie and pretend that we know ourselves and our species. 
We know nothing. Nothing is real. 
Everything abstract was created by a separate mind from behind their own pair of eyes, and instead of recognizing this and seeing what is actually in front of us.. the ebb and flow of creatures and energy..We see this pop up book which was designed collaboratively by many souls who know nothing more than we do.


xx