Snippet

She took up a rag-pile of words—used-up, torn-up mouthfuls—

And snipped and snapped,

This way, that way,

Follow the shape in your head,

And let it lead you to your heart.

She sewed them up, bit by bit, and it—just—fit!

And he walked away proud, head high and shoulders

Back, clothed in affection.

Confused.

I am caged in glass.
My thoughts on full display to see--I try to catch them, pull them back--But they flit away giggling, and almost malicious.

I forget that my mind is not glass but walls; that my eyes do not always reveal my heart, neither the good or the bad, and I never know: Did you really hear me?

I knock on your walls, not knowing they are only cardboard, not realizing they have fallen on your head. I see brick, and stones, and cold, cold iron, icy marble, torpid and wary. I cannot see your frantic scramble to set your pride to rights.

Do you feel any better?

...


I see a light bright and glorious that reminds me of a day in the way a memory of the sun points to that glowing orb. But my fingerprints on the mental glass are greasy and black; they remind me that I am separated--but not for long. I push it over--it shatters! Jagged shame cuts deep--but I must get out! Step by step of agony to the light.

Practicing Relationships.

I sense a tension between the ideal of authenticity and the desire for others' good will. I wonder, do we really want to know others' true state of heart? Or would we, would I, rather just have them lie to me so that I feel appreciated--so that I feel accepted? I might readily accept the latter, I find to my dismay.

Are we supposed to outwardly appear to accept what inwardly we despise, in an effort to love?

From the one side, it's so hard sometimes to put kindly what I mean kindly--to let someone know that what they do offends me. Not that it's not worth it; I'm trying to figure out if it is worth it. If it is--then I must at least try to do it.

My struggle is that if they don't understand, it's so difficult to make amends. And if they do understand--it's still usually difficult to make amends. It seems to break relationships rather than fix them. But perhaps the breaking is part of the fixing--like re-breaking a broken arm that is healing crooked.

From the other side--in thought I would rather have someone tell me the truth, but in reality I am not sure. If the person loves me, cares enough to put it kindly, and help me learn to do better, than I would welcome it. If the person does not care, then in the first place he or she probably wouldn't bring it up, but in the second place would not try to say it kindly and probably hurt me.

How is love supposed to show itself? Is it more loving to gruffly let someone know I don't care--or to appear to listen while inwardly seething? How disgusting that I must ask the question.

...

How confusing our way of talking is! Yet it's so plain, teasing. We pretend to offend, pretend to be offended, and underneath the whole we love each other. And where we have to try to be kind, have to appear to accept--there often is the person we struggle the most accepting, and who senses it the least.

How strange it would be to talk without a mask, that really isn't a mask. Is a transparent mask so bad? Those who know me see through it, and those who don't don't care, usually.

...

I wonder why we don't notice the little things that show others we love them. Things so simple, so easy--but they require stepping out of our comfort zones, letting down our hair a little, letting go the "that's mine!" mentality, opening up. I never realized how private we are, how mine I've made the things I claim.

I wonder what meeting an open soul would be like--someone whose heart was open, and welcoming--and no matter what happened there--loving. Who knew when and how to overlook, and when and how to be overlooked.

Peeking Out From My Past--The Second.

The Forest.



In the forest, quiet and deep

Where some like to play, and others sleep

I like to sit and think awhile

Of thoughts and dreams that make me smile

And in the forest, dark and deep,

Where I like to think of things so sweet

There is a stream, a bubb’ling brook

In which I love to sit and look

Upon the lovely waterfall

And think not to be there at all

On eagle’s wings I fly away

To dream of things of coming days

For in the song of the bubb’ling brook

At whose waters it is a joy to look

Is a song of songs, a hymn of joy,

And Fantasy is a tink’ling toy.

A song of joy, soft and complete

For a dreamer-girl am I

And I love to lie, O dreamer I

In the forest, by the water’s side.