I write because it seems that's all I can do. 

I write because I love you. 

It's a matter of understanding, of liberating

The heart and soul and mind 

And find the talisman that will bring you spirit and joy 

And wonder

How does this fit into my life?

My life of Ernest, of Oscar, 

How does it move and jive with the feelings of Luciano, 

of Mestre Bimba

I have no idea what the purposes of these two mixtures 

The mixture of supplying the raw self

Hidden behind social constructions

...I digress...

The feeling and movement of capoeira, 

Standing on the beach, giving a habidi hai to my bisexual friend 

The mess my mind makes when I train it to think linearly

It's impossible 

The nostagia takes over

Am I Quaker, or am I nonreligious?

Do I have a Bahian identity? That I care to reject

because society says it's useless

To think this way. 

I'm not supposed to percieve as a black Bahian woman

I am a white Irish girl

With hopes of becoming a writer like Charlotte Bronte

I don't know who I want to be. 

Thewriting flows out of me like a mixture of nonsense

My integrity has compromised

My ability to think in a form that is flowing 

Beautiful and serene. 

In a way that will make my parents happy 

Happy. 

The way the wind blew on my cheek as I sat there, motionless, 

Waiting for the air to push me, 

Release me from a ton of misgivings 

I gave it my all 

and I forced myself to be lonley 

Because I believed that would give me hope 

Purpose 

Pleasure. 

But I must be honest. 

For otherwise my true integrity will be compromised. 

The looking glass will bbe glaring back at me, eyes ponted, black

And I will be left with just a hole in my heart 

A "whole" in my heart. 

The last story is redeemed. 

I am finally a believer. 

Of my mother earth's peace. 

Forgiveness. 

Virtue. 

I write.