First.

I wake up, covered in the dark that had been my home so long... Yet something...
Something is different.
What is this thing that I see, this new feeling? This new atmosphere?
It is like the dark is starting to slide off, leaving me, a creature of dark, alone in the light. Standing, a stark contrast. And I can feel that.

I stand up, weak on my legs. I had thought before that I had moved, so why is it strange to take a step?

Had I been dreaming? Am I now awake? Is this what breathing feels like?

Or maybe this is the dream, and soon I will return to my comfortable darkness. But this feels... Real. The things I knew before do not.

I look down at myself. I am naked, and I am white. All around my feet lies the darkness, in a shroud at my feet. I reach out, touch it, pick it up... And it slides between my fingers. It looks like me, but it feels cold. Unfamiliar. I am not drawn to it as I was before, which is good as I no longer can hold it. It will not stay with me, even when I cup my hands.

Next I inspect myself. The darkness pooled at my feet is completely separate from me, and I take a shaky step away from it. It does not follow. What does follow is a long black mark that starts at my feet. It is separate from the shadows. It is part of me, like a scar or tattoo. I trace it with my finger, and something tells me that this is not the same as the darkness I had before. It has no traits, no pulls or draws. It merely bears witness of who I was, of where I was.

The world around me looks empty. It is flat and large, like an endless expanse of white with a shale floor. The white shines brightly, as though it is made of light. Perhaps it is, but when I walk over to the wall that was behind me and reach my hand out, it feels like a normal painted wall.

What is this new place? I don't know. I look back to where I was, now a simple puddle of darkness receding into the ground. Into the ground? I walk back to it, still shaky on my legs. The black is shrinking under the shale. Perhaps I too can find something under the shale?

I slip my fingers under a piece and immediately am cut. I draw my hand back quickly in shock, staring at the blood coming from my finger. It is no longer black as I had remembered. It is red, red and pure.

Who am I?

I look up, thinking to see a ceiling perhaps. But no, no ceiling here. The expanse seems to go on forever. Perhaps if I walk?

As I walk, I think about where I am. What I am. I had known before, but that was in a different place. If this is not a dream, then everything I had known about myself is different now. Rendered obsolete.

I'm not even wearing anything to cover myself here.

I don't even have a home, here...

In the distance I see something in the sky. It looks like another floor, but it has buildings. I can only see it slightly though, as through a haze. Perhaps if I keep walking, I can get to it?

And perhaps if I keep walking, I will figure out who I am..

Thought dump. I'm too awake for this.

So it's when we are tiredest that our truth comes out. When sleep erodes the barriers betwixt emotions and our exterior and even what goes on inside and suddenly everything that happens inside your head connects to your heart, and suddenly you can't help but notice it. 

If this is to be awake, no wonder I keep myself tired. 

It's when the fog we cast over our mind is lifted and suddenly we find ourself running, running at full speed with a mind like a sphere and there's no one here and we are all alone because no one can know or understand that this is life, day in, day out. 

Focus. Focus is that fog. We cannot control the speed at which our mind works and we cannot keep one thought long enough to complete it so... Focus. The fog of the mind. Throwing a blanket over everything just long enough...

We hope. 

And we put ourselves in a box

In a box?

In a cage

In a cage?

In a shell

A turtle shell and you can't get us out

We are the entitiy that is heart and mind and soul and spirit and all of the time

It 

Reads

Like

THIS like a whirlwind 

No punctuation

The music that accompanies is sometimes the only way to root it all into one plant. 

Because otherwise we'd have a garden.

But too much, and the flowers would suffocate each other. 

There is no training for this. There is no recognition for this. 

What do we call ourselves?

Broken.

We call ourselves broken. 

Music.

Everyone has their own melody, their own music...
It's not something chosen, really. It's something you're born with, and it's always evolving.
I don't mean like... When you're angry all your music is played in a minor key or something like that.
That would be silly.

I mean like... Every person has a melody. A music that is part oft heir core.
If you get to know them well enough, you can hear it sometimes.
Sometimes even play it.
The people that get along best; their music resonates.
The people that love you listen to you, and appreciate you...

The problem is, most people aren't looking for your melody.
They're looking to see if your melody compliments theirs.

Since no one reads this blog either anyways...

Detached?
No, not detached. Distanced maybe but... Still in touch with the feelings, the emotions...
It's everything that brings us to a point of change.
Things can never stay the same.
Not here, anyways.

Things that happen are a result of what you don't see.
A combination of thoughts and heart, always working subtly...
Free fall. You hit that at the peak.
Without it you can never find what you seek.
One has to be a little separate from the norm.
Things can't change if you get them stuck in one form.
Like a turtle or a snail trapped in a shell that won't grow...
I'm breaking out of what I know.
I have no home, but that's alright.
I'll build a new one, it's worth the fight.
And it might look a little like the one I broke...
But that's just me.

I can't escape Who I am, so Who am I to try?
But I can change What I am, if I don't then what have I?
God had a thought, and I became.
To change who He made is to dig my own grave.

But everything makes sense now. Will it later? Who knows...
It's like the moment where the fog clears and you can see the path.
That briefest instance.
And you know what you're doing.
And you know where you're going.

But then the fog settles in and you head in what you hope is the right direction, feeling more and more lost the farther you go... The farther you walk... Hoping it's the right way... Trusting the unseen...

Trust.
There is nothing else.

This is important. It just is.

Trust.

Easily given, easily broken. 

Actions taken, words spoken. 

Simple existence, reality in play. 

What happens next is what words we say.

There is no life without a basis in thought

This is the foundations of what God hath wrought.

My words and my actions, what you say and what you choose

Not all have the foresight to see what they’ll lose

You have to read between the lines

The important things lie behind the eyes. 

There is no way to describe it.

Alone.

Because no one knows who you are, but it’s not like you really know who you are either. 

But does it matter?

You don’t want it to. Why should it matter, anyways? You have friends don’t you? 

Yes. But no one knows. No one, no one, nobody… Alone. 

Emptiness. 

Hollow.

Floating, and keeping to yourself because it’s the only way to be who you are.

Who are you?

You’ll never know.

This is a land of mist. You don’t know who it belongs to. It belongs to you. You know that. But you don’t know… Who it belongs to.

Cold. Alone. Cold. Alone.

Emptiness.

Hollow.

You could disappear now. You know you could. But could you? How do you lose yourself? Did you ever have yourself?

Lost.

Lost? What is that? Who decided that?

Someone. 

Someone who probably didn’t know as much as you don’t know.

Empty.

Hollow.

Cold. Hiding. 

Hiding from what?

Something. Not me. Maybe me. 

Who is me? Who are you? Why are we hiding?

Are we hiding from you?

I am.

Empty.

Hollow.

Alone.

Maybe in writing the pain will pass
Maybe if words flow like blood, out of my finger tips and into the world...
Catching in a net, plain to see for those who know to look...
For those who care to look.

This is nothing important. Just every day life. Right?

Edges and cliffs. It takes so little for so much to change.
We know too much. But what matters?
We hear and over hear and get told all kinds of little, significant things...
Allowing us to see the webs that connect everything together....
And so we wait, watching, knowing pain is coming...

And because we know, we are trapped, feeling the pains of what is to come...

It is not our place, it never was. And yet...

Alone is for eternity.

We have been given the option to never be alone. So what drives us towards loneliness? Is it safety? But safety is no fun, we know that. Especially in solitude. Also safety is relative, so why should safety have a say in what we choose today?

And there is the problem; so often it doesn't.

Risk keeps us going, and safety calls our name. Trapped. Between what we know and what we don't, in so many more ways than one.

Crashing. Like Icarus, we get too close to the sun and our wings melt, clinging to our skin, boiling wax, burning us as we crash into an unforgiving sea. Risen on wings of daring, crashing in a sea of fear.

Escape is impossible. Fated to a labyrinth, following its winding path, undeviating as we make our way to the center, to face our demons. Half man and half beast, the death of us, the death of life. Where is the thread, the clew to escape with? There is none, not today. Today it is either fight or be devoured.

Devoured. Devoured by pain, self hatred, the flames and claws that rip us apart.

Pain...

Maybe in writing the pain will pass.
But then again, we've felt this before. Every day living. We just have to wait it out....

Right?