I have this book that i have been meaning to read. I know it contains knowledge I wish to possess.
Once i knew that it existed, it had to come home with me. I used to look at it every day. Sometimes I would open it and read a few sentences.
It is still there in the same place, but i have forgotten it in the middle of my coffee table, because I look around it now.
I can have the knowledge contained in the book within the walls of my home, but without engaging with its words I have no knowledge of that knowledge. Only the knowledge that I know it contains information i want to breathe through me.
I don't want to move it and forget that I want to read it thoroughly some day. I wish I already learned the things it contains years ago.
I have this thing I have been meaning to write. It iterates in my head tumbling and thumping.
But thoughts with words are linear
and maybe i fear the containment.
swirling thoughts and pulses overstuffed into hard syntaxes.
i may be misinterpreted. or misunderstood. or not understood. or seen. but not on my terms, because i cant control how someone else contextualizes what I say or how i steer. when it's an offering and not a conversation, does it matter.
to be seen
the most beautiful and sacred of all gifts
requires uncertainty, vulnerability
im not ashamed
i just remember being in shame
and slave to
and the memory of it peeks from the shadow of my aura
the thing about having a shadow,
you are standing in the light. there are no shadows in the dark.
it's not yet time i guess.
it would go around me, above me, below me but not through me.
I await its undeniable call at the graceful hour.