Space Is Like A Shelter In Many Forms. The Way That Space Feels Both Accessible And Far Beyond. How Elaborate

Christian Wiman, from Once in the West; "Music Maybe"

[Text ID: one wants in the end just once to be friend / one's own loneliness, // to make of the ache of inwardness— // something, // music maybe,]

You need to come in and conquer me. Take me down a notch from my overlapping thoughts. Knock me down with your kindness and wisdom. Just help me, and I will help you.

𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬. 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞. 𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞.

Ja. Einzigartig. Das uralte Gedichtgerät. Schön.

Reflection.

I find myself somewhat amusing the grim ideas. Having trouble finding the right words while having a lot to say. How your brain may change and turn against you while you're silent.

I am everywhere and nowhere at once. once to be seen, loved, and heard. Am I being heard? Can you sense me? How much longer can I take? stuck in translation, clinging to hurtful hope. Hurting. aching and wishing. Indeed, such is life.

𝐴 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑤𝑒'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 1. 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑒—𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒.

𝑇𝒉𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦...𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠.

...𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑟𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜...𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑗𝑎𝑧𝑧 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑒. 𝑇𝒉𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒𝑠...

|| Saw it coming. Erwarte niemals etwas. Hoffnungen zerschlagen.

I have to have faith in myself. I must have something absurd and irrational to cling to. Stupid and silly, yet I fully comprehend it. I'm destroying myself with worry about the future. I'm exhausting myself thinking about the past. in the present? Standing here, unsure of myself. Walking while blind... It's almost as if I'm a wind-up toy with a purpose. Would I hear myself if I shouted?

Not the rose petal anymore. Just a leaf. By my own thoughts, I have been crushed and malfunctioning. Suffocated and plagued by oneself. I'm no longer disillusioned, but instead having mental dizziness. In my head stewing. Then halt. Then halt. Yet how? Breathe. Exhale and inhale. The day will be new tomorrow. I've come this far, and I'm confident that I can continue.

What risks does having dreams pose, if any? free to let one's thoughts stray and get lost. But that's all there is. Lost. Maybe lost means you don't want to be found. Imagine that the joy is in being above the clouds, gazing down as the body is motionless. Still adrift. to fly into the air, temporarily erasing all concerns and doubts. Expressionless, immobile, and hyper-focused on everything at once. trapped in the labyrinth of my own consciousness. Is this the cost of freedom, though? This never-ending web of anxiety... the agonizing impression that dreams are unreal. yet actual to me. My objectivity is unique. within this body...

Nothing is meant by this body, these words. a moron with a body, I am a poet who speaks foolishly. Usually unheard, rambling, and losing charm; merely musing and muttering. A never-ending mass of nonsense masquerading as... Collective words. I'm hoping someone somewhere will understand. This mind's soul is imprisoned in a machine-like anger, much like a demon. Typical. Although essentially silly, intellect is marked... And what conflict does my body have? I'll continue to float, staying in my dreams, and perhaps...

Perhaps...

And where am I? Where do I commence...do I culminate here? Hurt and broken? Believing that it was something when it wasn't. I'm to blame. I put myself in a position to be facilely hurt...suppose I go back? I'd like to think I'd make different culls. But that'd be too facile. Nothing left to do but cry and move on.

Believe it or not the stinging sensational pain will fade and I'll be okay. Maybe not...now or next week; but I'll be okay. Insanely broken but better pieces I suppose.

Insane. I'm insane for the things I believe in.

Every day is unique. Nothing will ever be the same again. Even the similarities will never be identical. Both tragedies and joys will never fall on the same plain again. And why are we so adamant about refusing something we've written and are familiar with?

When we had a very lovely day. When something excites us. When the day welcomes us with its silkiness and softness. We grow fixated on the idea that each day will be identical to the previous one. All of the fortune cookie wisdom vanishes.

As a result, each day is unique. Why is it so difficult for us to live each day in this manner?