freedom

We all seek freedom in one way or another. But in the end, we live in an age where none of us know what true freedom feels like. We’ve never lived it beyond our mind and flowering imagination.

Although I don’t know what freedom feels like as a tangible experience, I know the swing of its hips, the scent of its hair and the song in its voice. I know how deeply freedom wants to find me. I know how desperately I seek it.

Whether here or in that place we go when we leave here, I will find freedom. It waits for me, in that place we’ve forgotten exists.

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existence remembered

The words leave, drifting atop my misconceptions. I am looking backwards.

Why did we come here?

Was it only to see if being human was a strange fad, something new for our soul to do? Or was it something real and lasting and developed from a wanting, from a need to exist inside a space filled with wonder and amazement?

Why are we here? Ask yourself that question without waiting for the answer. Speak the truth to yourself without hesitation. Let the wind hear you, me, us. Because at the end of it all, even the gods will kneel before us, endlessly wondering how we made it through.

They will discover that we fought our way through with the sword of love. Because that is the only thing that could keep us here, the love-fight; that need to recreate our authentic soul existence on Earth.

We came here because of the remembering.

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parallel universe

In the space of memory resides the fence we stand atop, teetering on the edge between hard ground and water. In that space we remember the moments that embrace us before we have a chance to embrace them. They catch us unaware and ask us the hard questions we’re not ready to answer.

Why do you feel?

I feel because my joy stitches the wounds of my pain, and salves them into healing. My joy mercilessly threads itself through the flesh of agony, reminding me that in time, the scars may not fully disappear, but they will no longer be noticeable to the world, nor to me. They will be seen only in quiet moments, when the sun is high, or the night stand lamp casts a light over the flesh of my ancient wound.

My joy spoons itself into the mouth of my sorrows, provisions to save it from starvation and death. I am intertwined inside myself, mixed in with everything I have ever seen or known. I am my happiness; I am my disappointments.

Another word is needed, one that melds this essence of me; a word that says, I am everything all at once, in this moment—in this parallel universe.

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little expectations

Writing Prompt: Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt. Expectation.

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I am sometimes filled to overflowing with a cauldron of expectations. Ideas mixed in with opinions and beliefs that don’t belong to me or the soup overwhelm every aspect of my life. Which expectations are real and true; which are contrived notions created by someone else’s way of seeing the world?

I place in neat little rows all my expectations on the table. I examine them and wonder about their origins and why they’ve followed me to this point in time. Why do I need them? Do they need me? What are they? Why are they?

I want to detach myself from them so I may watch them from a distance. And see what expectations do when they have no one to hold on to.