I started isolating Myself, used to Say everything I was feeling But then I guess I just stopped I wanted them to Love me for who They thought I was And not who I felt Myself becoming
Ever think about How horrified the People we loved Would be if they Found out who We really are? So we dig deeper Into our lies everyday Ultimately hurting The only People who Are brave enough To love us Wish I was Brave enough to Love them back
on this edge I hear different things with different ears the rain in close deserts the emptiness of hours rolling into something larger than themselves your self, my self, their selves trapped nebulae inside the knife of time carving wise bodies when the flood of blood gets disconnected from the heart bodies full of tears recycle the vaults of thought I am no other than myself frozen in a primordial space, a shelter for the pain of those I love
sometimes there is "a search for a new transformational object whereby the self seeks to develop, progress and advance to broader and deeper stages of maturation (the progressive as opposed to the repetitive regressive transference) via an intimate relationship with another person".
this endless procession of luminous shapes of darknes, of blindind lights full of dark stories passing through everything my mind can envision thoughts slowly growing like trees with imaginary roots to dygest to recycle the unbearably bearable a true psychic cosmology cause life creates by destroying, destroys by creating I need to examine my dreams, not the alphabet of dreaming -symbolic transformation, not equation- the terror to be so alive in an unresponsive world it is pain that turns my thoughts into wax figures I want to deny that words have a heart of stone cause they might deny their nature in the beginning was the word, or the emotional field, the primeval soup of vibrations you are not what you know, you are not what you perceive, you are the one to be felt and let go of we are all that is unbearably bearable
In a "symbolic equation" (Segal, 1978), the person cannot distinguish between the symbol and the thing symbolized. The symbolic equation denies separateness between self and object, whereas symbolic representation bridges prior loss.
I grew up longing to be found on a deserted place where the stories told 'I shouldn't have meant to be there', counting the dead until I become them. I was written on old houses as I was left haunted and reminisced on melancholic belonging.
However, it is her rising, the beginning, the becoming.
I am a chest filled with lullabies, it is my reaching to the world to heal my heart, and a calling of the ocean, where my love belongs.
self-love, self inspired poem and a gift to my 22nd.
"Contentment is a synonym for loneliness, cool loneliness, settling down with cool loneliness. We give up believing that being able to escape our loneliness is going to bring any lasting happiness or joy or sense of well-being or courage or strength. Usually we have to give up this belief about a billion times, again and again making friends with our jumpiness and dread, doing the same old thing a billion times with awareness. Then without our even noticing, something begins to shift. We can just be lonely with no alternatives, content to be right here with the mood and texture of what’s happening."
"it allows us to finally discover a completely unfabricated state of being. Our habitual assumptions — all our ideas about how things are — keep us from seeing anything in a fresh, open way… We don’t ultimately know anything. There’s no certainty about anything. This basic truth hurts, and we want to run away from it. But coming back and relaxing with something as familiar as loneliness is good discipline for realizing the profundity of the unresolved moments of our lives. We are cheating ourselves when we run away from the ambiguity of loneliness."
"Cool loneliness allows us to look honestly and without aggression at our own minds. We can gradually drop our ideals of who we think we ought to be, or who we think we want to be, or who we think other people think we want to be or ought to be. We give it up and just look directly with compassion and humor at who we are. Then loneliness is no threat and heartache, no punishment. Cool loneliness doesn’t provide any resolution or give us ground under our feet. It challenges us to step into a world of no reference point without polarizing or solidifying. This is called the middle way, or the sacred path of the warrior."
by Pema Chodron from "When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advise for Difficult Times"
pain loves the present tense it loves gravity so that the clouds are turned into geological strata sometimes I use my hands like an anaesthetic between right and wrong the pain dillema: to feel or not to feel (the unknown) we discover clever remedies or illusions quiet cannery in the storehouse of flesh
it comes in circles mixtures all kind of names it has rythm texture electric blackness each unshed tear an orb of contraction compulsive excavation of the void inside sometimes I feel I have canyons of salt in my heart on the edges of safety so much to learn about terror
this pain is a blind Robinson on Hope island (with his bare hands he sets pyres in his heart) was it pain that invented this language, these holy wars? love you, hate you, nonsense, can't stand it anymore I know my father lied to me that he doesn't feel pain
bodies in pain can't dream the water slide of life that might take us further away into the night of day time to say thank you, say farewell, love everything that simply is it is time to
I'm scared that 'becoming' who I am is just an acceptance of realities others have created. Maybe the older we get the more entrenched we become in what we perceive to be the truth; the more we experience of our tiny existence, the more we believe in it. "The way of life we live, a life we have never really chosen, forces us to walk past what we see."