I struggle, it is difficult. It is lonely. My soul is rankled but what I’ve read, shook, astounded, I don’t have the right words for it, the world isn’t supposed to still be standing, something of epic proportions is supposed to happen in the real world to reflect just how much the foundations of my world was shaken so I can prove to others, share, show them exactly what has happened and why my reality will no longer be the same.
It is lonely, to see and live in the world, the reality of words that others cannot see, you can give them the words and they can read it but they will not see, will not FEEL, the sheer..EVERYTHING, the way it makes my soul bang at and shake at the bars and chains that ties it to my body. I want to break FREE, free of my body, of this body, of the world. That the feeling, the tears that leak are desperation to escape from this life so I may live.
They don’t understand and it’s painful, this scratching sensation inside, that stems from within your spirit, your soul, you can’t scratch it physically, only irritate a little more with words and other forms of art, meant to soothe but only makes me crave that escape and freedom even more, to comprehend beyond what my 5 senses allow me, it is a frustration.
I don’t know to feel sorry or not for artists whose mediums aren’t words. I know they speak in a different language, in dance, in colors, in lines, in paintings, in tones, in music…I know on some level we are the same, we are comprehending the same reality, have the same type of sensitivities, we are just using different mediums to convey them. But it’s a struggle, talking to them. The dancer whose movements tell me that they know the same emotions that torture my soul cannot form proper sentences to understand that I have understood her. And I mean no disrespect, for I cannot show her with my body that I understand what she was trying to say with those twists and flips of her fluid body. But language is the most basic (I doubt it is by choice) manner of communication our kind has evolved to use, I cannot comprehend anyone who does not at least have an expert grasp of it. Words shape our reality, how does one not think in words? Words are thoughts, even if sometimes they fail to take the shape of words, they still want to escape from my mouth, my body, my soul as SOMETHING. Emotions that great needs to come out and a manifestation in the physical world, the material world, it HAS to or its creator will implode from channeling, from feeling from creating too much. There IS too much in this world, perhaps you can’t see because you are the lucky or unlucky few who cannot feel the fullness of the world passing through you every single moment. And yet we continue to create new things to stimulate our senses because we have grown numb to the bombardment of the world.
It is painful, but I am grateful I still feel pain, still feel like I am bursting from the seams and itching to crawl out of my skin, my shell, which is wholly and fully me, which I love, but I wish I was a kite and not a stuffing that is permanently tethered to my body.
The words, the best and most poetic, concise and appropriate ones aren’t coming to me and this piece isn’t as linguistic as it should be, the words they aren’t dancing at my command like a symphony because they’re all overly excited as am I and we are just all freestyling in a frenzy, the words that comes first wants to leap out to reality, we all want to escape into the real world in some manner and make an impact, a bang, a mark.
I wonder if this is what it means to have an artist’s soul, and if artists are explorers because so much of us wants to escape but we have to drag our cumbersome bodies with us, so without a choice, we have to physically carry ourselves to new destinations so that our bodies can be in sync with our souls that has already travelled to universes beyond and back, seen the angels, the stars, the devil and the aliens.
Oh beautiful world, I wish I could find more ways to interact, behave IN you and see more of you, feel you in new ways, see you in your entirety and be closer to you.
Perhaps life is just the love story between the person and the world, our futile attempts to minimize the distance between ourselves and the world through any and every means possible.
I am exhausted now and the muse, or the spirit, the purity of freedom is leaving me, it will be back and until them I will be a husk of who I really am, and no one will be none the wiser. Its embers will burn within me, making me just aware enough to never fit in, reminding me that I am not complete, not the fullest version of me, and that my mortal soul may very well never be able to fully contain that version of me.
It is sobering.