Kisses of Torn Truth. The Seduction of a Creative Storm
I am feeling thorny today.
My soul, not so gently, nudged me awake too early, wanting attention, demanding food. It has a voracious appetite for rich morsels and a crushing contempt for stale crumbs.
Today the words want to be written. They desire to be seen, channeling themselves as a beautiful tangle of imperfections that will pounce onto pages, without the editing that will take their essence away. The words want to trip and spin and weave and roll. They do not care what time it is.
I have the flutter of a feeling that came from the wake of a dream. A journey that I never quite remember beginning but one in which I look down to find my feet skirting the paving stones of.
I glance down at my hands, seeking their stories from all the other lifetimes I know they have witnessed. They stay silent, keeping their secrets deeply embedded into lines that start nowhere and travel everywhere.
Today, my body is aching. The world feels too sharp, too angular and I wonder where all the circles have gone. I want to take the angry edges and soften them into a kaleidoscopic blur.
I dive into myself. I rush through my own arteries and look for the blockages that are hurting my heart. I swim through pools of poetry and rivers of wild. I have questions for each obstruction that I come across: Why are you here? What message do you hold?
Sometimes answers are given, sometimes not.
There are too many hearts that are caged and I cannot let mine be incarcerated, too. My writing is born somewhere between the expansion and the contraction. My language comes from a conflicted land that is home to bold daring and shy reluctance.
My words are my truth. And my truth is ready to spill over.
I shall not wither away in a world that stakes a claim to my expression. I shall not give myself up. Today I will take my bare feet and walk to the next earth. I will not stay in this battlefield. I am tired of these trenches.
Somewhere between my fierce heart and my wild soul is a space. An open field of unknown. Now and then I think I glimpse a trace of what lies there, but when I snap my eyes open, I see nothing, hearing only the echoes of my mystery mind.
I take the landscape that lays before me and I turn it the other way around. Clouds are at my feet. Blades of grass from the sky fall down to my fingers. I lean into each wave. Nothing is as it seems. Nothing ever was.
I tell the storm I'm ready for its seduction. Let it come. I have no desire for a gentle mist. I want the claps of thunder to tear through my bones and thrill me with their rage.
I begin to write.
The lines have already been etched but I bleed out of them, unable to be contained.
Summoned by the storm is every feeling that ever existed. Each emotion looks me squarely in the eye, daring me to look away. Dark feelings defiantly refusing to dress up, to be anything other than achingly raw.
The storm shows no mercy. The words fly at me in fragments. Broken and bloodied. I scoop them up and hold them to me, though they wriggle and writhe.
I feel myself hurtling back to a past that isn't of this lifetime. In the blink of an eye I'm thrown forward to a future that hasn't happened. The balance hasn't yet been struck and I wonder if the difference will make it.
Syllables spring forth. The torrent takes over. I am no longer sure if I'm writing or reminiscing. The worlds have collided and all I can do is surrender to the experience.
My reality fades away into fantasy. I find myself clutching the glass bottle that holds both the deep poison and the antidote. The fate of my words will unfold as I command, and yet there will always be something left to chance. A loose end that never quite gave up its desire to unravel.
I taste each letter that leaves my lips. Each one is a kiss of torn truth, of scalding honesty that delights in having its wild and wicked way with me.
The crazed energy of the storm becomes a part of me. I ride each cyclonic wave, feeling every breaking beat of a force that cannot stop until it's truly, finally spent. Pause cannot be pressed.
Creativity is my inevitability. My friend, my foe, my familiarity. It's the open road and the final curtain. It's the only way I know how to set the silent screams free and empty my lungs.
It's the hand that shakes me. It's the overflow of every liquid part of me. It's finding myself on the floor with all my molten suddenly escaping it's confines, coming apart without fear or apology.
It's the seething, cussing mass of naked moments that clammer for, and then hide from, the spotlight. It's the long night that refuses to end. It's the sharp edged honesty that cuts slivers from my tainted heart.
Only the knowing sky understands. Only the glittering rebel diamonds that sparkle through night clouds can truly know what it is to live with this beautiful darkness.
The storm has subsided. I am left with unfinished sentences and abandoned shards that the thunderous calamity left behind.
But I can breathe again now.
Image courtesy of Frantzou Fleurine