Inkling

I begin to think something, an inkling of something. Possibility. My potential capacity to actualize aspiration. I feel the edges of my unlived life and quiver at its magnitude. I begin to think I am capable of incredible feats. A life of health, wholeness, joy, and deep commitment. So what stands in my way?

Rising

I can feel myself growing with each day. 

New opportunities are presenting themselves. 

For love. 

For work. 

For art. 

I am leaving behind what distracts me. 

And working hard to face what is in front of me. 

Breaking out on my own. 

Finding a space that is entirely mine. 

Setting boundaries with people. 

Finding myself within my own field. 

Cultivating peace and inner security. 

It is my inner strength that is bringing all this to pass. 

Taking refuge in the jewel of my own heart 

And thriving there. 

This is a new world I’m treading in. 

A new world of possibilities and satisfaction. 

Of needs met and passions pursued.

What starts from within will inevitably make its way out. 

And so I am beginning with the blank canvas of my soul, 

Forging ahead with a new life. 

One grounded in love and care and strength and resilience and fluidity. 

And I am excited for the day when finally my dreams come to pass 

Somewhere there is a layer of skin I no longer need, 

A shell going back to the earth 

While I rise 

Little by little 

Into the heavens. 

The In Between Space

The field between my fingertip and the screen 

Is a reverse gravity 

A strong resistance. 

If there are words they are teetering upon written 

But remain as mere potential. 

If there are feelings they are unformed 

Amorphous

And dark.

Sometimes writing is worse 

Than wading 

Barefoot through a gator swamp 

Or a swarm of bees 

Or a cave of horrors. 

Instincts and actions 

Never seem to agree. 

They bicker and battle 

And melt into nothing

Into a sad paralysis. 

A low grade misery 

That permeates everything. 

And in the in between space 

Lives an insatiable dissatisfaction,

A disappointment at the core of me,

An arthritis of the soul.

In the field between finger and screen 

Is a desire to run the fuck away,

To kill my passion 

Before it kills me, 

Slowly, 

Dreadfully, 

Dead.