Sunday, May 4, 2014

can i play in my sand box?

a secret place to look inside. a shocking return to the elemental. my intention: explore this rush of ideas that are struggling to emerge, trying to make their way to the surface. the fear that they will be still-born - urgent telegrams sitting mutely in dead letter offices.

such acute pain to behold the half-born. my shame of not having completed the birthing process, of being unable to do so. wondering if my own surgical birth instilled in me a sense of incompletion, of never really emerging. 

then these two showed up with buckets to collect sand. they even unearthed a few bits. i loved them!

a couple of monsters came on the scene, totally disinterested in birthing ideas. they were mischief and play, fiendish delight. oh they were me. my heart ached with joy for them.

elsewhere my narcissistic pride gazed upon her suitcase full of brilliant bits. she's been collecting them, hoarding them. she lugs them around, never opening it. i hate her. my heart shuts like her suitcase.

it's all there.

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