I’ve been thinking about the way birds fly recently. The way, the liquid way their wings move through the air. Dark shapes piercing the sunrise in a way man has never been able to achieve. Why didn’t God make us with the ability to fly, or at least to learn how? I’ve flown so often in my dreams. One person once told me that flying in our dreams was our soul taking a break from our bodies and just zooming around for awhile. But why do I have to be subconscious to soar? Why can’t I do it naturally, physically, right now? Is it an eternity thing? Is that a price of being bound to Earth and Time, to feel the plodding under my feet all the time and only to sense the freedom awaiting me as I drift in dreams that are like memories? Memories are so difficult for me. So painful. Not that my life was painful to remember but the fact that some of it is over already and reduced to nothing but a faulty retrieved file in the back of my over-stuffed brain, to be viewed in colors that have nothing to do with reality and voices that sound like the echoes in an empty apartment with high ceilings. The sounds are all barren white, the colors are all slightly moldy, the sensations are strong but untrustworthy. It’s odd to think that we can remember anything at all, that our minds are so full yet are able to recycle. Nothing is ever exactly the way we remember it–we’re not recalling reality, we’re recreating our perception of it. Reality itself is so much bigger than what we see of it. Memories can’t embody that sense of being part of a much bigger whole, that knowledge that we are not the only ones in the world and we are not the center of the universe. I have a lot of childhood memories of my dad and I from way back when, but my mind seems to have sealed all my home life memories (except for a very select few) from when I was about 15. I don’t remember much, which worries me. There’s always a bit of latent worry when I think about my life at home as a teenager. Nothing bad happened, but why did I block so much of it out? Maybe I didn’t like myself and home was the only place where I couldn’t pretend to be something else. That might be it.
I don’t want to talk about that anymore. It’s too serious.
I wrote a poem when I was a 15 year old girl who thought far too much for her own good and it was the only free verse poem I ever deigned to write. I called it “Green” and it was about wondering what I liked and what I had been trained to like and whether I could differentiate between them. It was so important to me to be genuine back then. And now. And that poem was about the “who am I” problem, about my insecurities, and my high standards for myself that no one else seemed to give me. I’m still doing that, by the way.
I’ve said for years that I’m not a poet, but my life in writing would dictate otherwise. I am a poet, I am just an uncomfortable one. I don’t enjoy looking at those sensitive areas for so long so I ignore them as much as possible. I observe them as a scientist rather than experiencing them as an artist. I can’t bear to sit in my feelings, probably because I am intimidated by their influence over my head.