The Joys of Writing: Shifting Perception, and Other Little Acts of Freedom

If you’re going to speak do it freely. Use words wisely but don’t spare them at my expense. I think it comes down to consistency. I’m almost convinced it’s in the actions we repeat, not the words that we speak that bears witness to our existence.

But only half of what I say makes sense, so these little pearls I normally keep inside for fear someone might criticize or defile them. But why would I compromise the beauty that comes to my mind for strangers that don’t know me or understand anyway?

… Shouldn’t we all feel this way?

So let’s start with a little honesty from me, if I left fear to take over my head, I doubted I’d ever roll out of bed. If I know this to be true then my staying in, containing the words replaying over my mind, helping me to define my better behaviors, wouldn’t that be fear winning?

I’m beginning to think, it’s time to own my own my version of things.

Soaking up information quietly has been key for me.

As surely as two and two make four in my mind, quiet time and a constant flow lead me where I need to go.

Call them prays, mantras, meditations, I start my mornings religiously bearing my direction in mind.

May each connection born by me be catalyzed by love, this one I find myself whispering time after time and it pairs beautifully with; May what I bring, bring evermore because the entities that give it to me want it to be shared.

It isn’t up to my government, my peers, family or my faith to make me give what I have without greed, though their inspiration helps. My actions aren’t on anyone but me.

I pray, that in the currencies that matter most may we all experience wealth. In reasons for breathing may we never be poor, and that, folks, what the practice of gratitude is for.

For example, when I first found my passion for writing to hold potential for bearing fruit, was in college when I wrote papers for money for people who I thought to be much more book smart than me. I never held it against them, in fact, we became quite fast friends, tit for tat they gave the company and exotic beer back.

The further I got into academia the more I felt I was drinking to relics, the belief that a system could be used toward the betterment burst like a bubble from my reality as soon as I started to see the identity behind the labels belonged to nefarious ‘I won’t name’ companies.

In the end, my conclusions lead me back to that gratitude for fortitude and the ability to see through the material covering my eyes, trying to bamboozle me with a darker version of who I might be.

I started wearing sweaters to classes just so the hood could stand between me and the infuriatingly ‘for sure’ mix with wishy-wash opinions my classmates were slinging.

By my third year, I was tired of hearing such solid sentence structures manifesting into what might sound like well-polished arguments. But I was left to see through the fluffy stuffing into the absurd thought turds beneath the lukewarm sentiments. Honestly, I’d have rather listened to the Barney theme endlessly…

I’d leave lectures dispassioned or boiling, wondering, How can they be so sure of EVERYTHING? When I can’t stick myself to a conclusion no matter the glue’s strength. I remember grumbling something to the extent of this more than a few times…

I started going to class with my hood up, nutting up and shutting up, trying not to step on toes, so easily crushed, apparently. I hadn’t realized up until this time how tough I had been, I definitely formed an appreciation for my backbone, standing alone in most of my arguments, not because I believed in the opinion I was rooted in at the moment, more than I was searching for how far their convictions could go. Most of the time intellectual combativeness was a no-show. Made me feel a bit wearier trying to explain why I couldn’t agree completely with the blame each was casting…

Seeing the world through a lens of inferiority complexes, convex personalities, disorders, and their relationships to delusions and wrongful conclusions, and other labels used to soothe us as we sink into the reality of a larger world with more dimension than we can comprehend. Thought pollution a form of trickery easily masked in otherwise see-through cyclical paths.

It’s this!

No, it’s that! Bipartisan arguments stuck on repeat… Why can’t the truth be riddled through each?

Well because that isn’t how it works, doesn’t work for me.

I’ve met beautiful beings who do ugly things in closets. I hold secrets that don’t belong to me that affect the way I see the world’s underbelly, I have compassion for those who live in the extremities that I’ve passed through, an abused visitor not a calloused resident.

In my lowest points, it was gratitude that lifted my head from my feet, allowing each of my abilities to do their job, feet navigating while eyes watched the scenes around me and my hands reached for those who had pearls to teach. I’ve gathered a mindful of other people’s stories.

every time I start to lose my footing I close my eyes and bring those little orbs of information to my minds’ eye. It takes the form (often) of a warmly lit room with a series of clues that might fit my characters current shoes. I am but a product and an after effect of my environment. If I can hold each gratefully I can use them for future endeavors once I’ve made it through to the next list of ‘to-dos’.

The places and dreams I’ve kept on their pedestals, now taunting me with dismissal, we’ve been waiting for you and your qualities to catch up long enough, call us when you measure up. 

That place is hell on earth, flowers from a significant other look more like a chore, something to water, much different view than then the beautiful gift they are meant to be. The extension of life begging to leave a better impression on you. I’m gaining wisdom with my old age, upper twenties… When I get to this point it’s time to recede and focus on what’s going on inside of me.


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