Random

I see things. Little things. Little people. I had an imaginary friend when I was little. He was outlined in electric blue, but then he changed. He changed because I grew up. Sad things happen like that; growing up I mean. The other day I had a salad, and I thought “What if my salad could speak? Would it beg me not to eat it?” I couldn’t finish my salad. When I grew up, I wanted to be a mermaid. These thoughts are an insight to my childish perspective.

 I’ve seen auras around people since I can remember. It is their soul, their essence of who they are in its entirety. I can’t see all auras, only people I understand or feel intuitive about. Another thing I notice is our eyes. They tell a story of what we have been through. My eyes change color; this is the key to understanding me. You have to be close up, and gaze a very long time in order to see someone’s eyes. The walls I have set up make it difficult to obtain that knowledge of understanding.

            I do not really see gender. I am me. You are you. Labels are unnecessary and binding. Labels clarify to society and create structure (fuck structure sometimes). I almost lost my brother when I was 17; he has a rare blood disease. My grandmother died like her mother; hooked up to a respirator. My mother lost herself when she left my father, and she took us with her. She eventually found herself. Her eyes shine again. They glow a beautiful hue. I do not worry about her like I used to when I was little. When my mom and I are together, we attract people.  We walk into stores that are deserted, and walk out through a flock full of people. My father is awkward, but he has found contentment with the women he is going to marry. I am bitter towards my father. I wish he knew what my favorite color was (rainbow), or that I cried when he didn’t come to my senior meet in high school.

            I write what I write as exposure to reality to myself. Attention is not the intention (that sounds bizarre). Often times I fade into the background, and sometimes it is a good thing, and other times I need to be saved from the shadows I create from my own thoughts. My own fears.

            I fear love, rejection, of being told my best is not satisfactory for this world. I fear the mixed responses this will create. Be kind.

            In the end though, do we really know who we are? That is the marvel of humanity. We spend our entire lives trying to discover who we are inside. What we believe. How we perceive things, and are they right? No amount of writing can clarify an idea or judgement-- it can only guide us into what we feel is right. Writing draws the essense of ourselves out into the open, and what is more terrifying than that? What is true? What is real? At the end of the day when the clocks melt and become distorted; we finally understand who we are. We are finally content to put the pen down, and breath.  And then we die. Fickle isn’t it?