thoughts, when i should be sleeping

I am positively brimming with thoughts at all times. Sometimes, I admit, they are critical—of others, of myself. I can be quick to run, or quick to criticize.

I think I have the unfortunate task of both seeing clearly and being completely blind. Things make sense until they don’t. I rush to make things right. I am one side of the story… I long to be seen, I long to hide… but how much do I really know? How much do I take for granted?

What are words, what is art, if not the body excising pain, relinquishing all that emotion? Why do we feel, and what do we really need, besides our eyes… our hands, our hearts, our faces… We created language and the world became infinitely more complex… but did it become infinitely more beautiful? Pardon me, am I getting off on a tangent again? Is the world not full of people like us, people who would understand?

Sometimes we are given a hundred chances to make things right. Sometimes it is time to move on, turn the page. Sometimes a poem is a cluster of imagination mixed with words that come too quickly and somehow sound just right. Sometimes I am scared of myself, and of my own reflection. Sometimes I hate what my face betrays… I want to keep it quiet. I want to keep these anxieties shut tight. I get lost in them… I do not wish to be known, only to know. But in the not being known, I cannot truly know. In the accusation, I miss the culpability I might possess… how can I see it? How can I give voice to my pain, when I have tried so many times? You become a stranger… the villain, as am I. What use is there in this… It is all ashes, remnants, of what once was alive.

I feel someone must tell me what is right, what is too much, how to see myself. Because I can see clearly until I am involved, and then I ask too much. I give away what is mine. I must learn to escape and meditate. I must remember to escape and be quiet. Not ask for answers and get angry when they are answered… but be kind. And patient. Gentle…

I wish not to make mistakes when it comes to loving. I wish to treat you right. I wish to see my flaws as quickly as possible, so I may right them. I wish to see your flaws and still be kind. You do not give voice to mine. Why must I?

I do not care, right now, I suppose, what my ramblings will tell you about me. There is a separateness, in writing, between the page and you and I. And yet, as a reader… it feels as if we are one. This is the conundrum, is it not? That by expressing ourselves, we can feel so far away… while to the listener, we are as close as we have ever been. Maybe this is right. Maybe it is to teach us to speak seldomly, or only to voice both our triumphs and failures, our pride and humility in equal measure, to be as human as possible… to share love, to share the full expanse and frailty of ourselves with each other… our mistakes and blunders equally as beautiful as that which we get right. I do not always intend to rhyme, but it comes out that way, because I long for the music.

Will you play it with me? Will you take this and make it better, get it stuck in your head, listen to it at night, when you cannot yet sleep… when you long for peace… when you realize we are all alike… when you are tired of fighting.

I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry, always. I am right I am right I am vindicated, nearly never. And this is perfectly alright.

I love you. I love all of us. I love you like a mother. I love you like a friend. I love you like a lover. I love you like a sin. I love you and it is not what you think. I love you and it is. I love you at first sight. There will be many first sights in this life. But, when we are lucky, there is only one that keeps us. We whisper it and hold each other. Everything will be alright.