Is it a lie to say I know myself? Decite to say I'm sure? Who is the child behind these sad, dull eyes? I used to know her well--when spring was more than a fantasy and life a cause to smile. What is it about her now that causes such self destruction? Why the facade to hide the monster? Why the monster to hide the chill? Why the chill to soothe the bleeding heart? When it thaws, will I die?--Be found bleeding for all to see? Vulnerable? Or will I once again be able to say that I know myself for sure? Is that what it takes to make the lie a truth?
Perhaps the child behind the eyes is only a memory, and what has replaced her is Now's reality. Perhaps Now sees her only as a tool to keep me motivated.
Can you trick the present? Can you get to the past? What if I find her again? Will she be mine? Will she be me? How will I know?

Doors.

Doors are an interesting thought.
They open. They close.
They mark the beginning and the end--they are a transition.
They are a barrier against a storm or a portal to the day.
They hide our most private selves and open up our deepest imaginations.
By closing a door you section off an existance. By opening, you share that state with the world.

Clarity

I wonder why we don't always see the world with clarity. I try. I'll look around, study an object, feel a surface, strain against its fibers and tissues and being--but sometimes the beauty and the poetry of it really just isn't there. Does a heart which is afraid to created a connection cause this? Is it an illusion? Or is the poetry really just lost sometimes?
Perhaps the blurr is a defense mechanism? But what am I defending myself from? Is defense needed from colors and textures? Will the sharp edges of vision's majesty cut through my soul? Or will it break through the bondage that I am in? Will it finally release me from this space in which I find myself trapped? What if clarity is a view into a completely new and separate world? How can I open that door?
My moment of most clarity came to me today as I was cutting potatoes. The knife in my right hand, the potato in the left. Maybe that's it? Perhaps clarity comes at a point of change--a point when one object--a whole potato--becomes something else--dinner. :)

Don't be a lazy egg...or a crazy egg either. In fact, stay away from the eggs and be a duck!

Occasionally, in life, there are a few moments of extreme mental clarity. The wood becomes more than a swirl of knots and a brush of texture and the carpet under your feet screams the story that thousands of feet have trod into each fiber. Colors scream in your minds eye with vavacity and are surreal instead of their typical opaque insubstance.

Sleep

When sleep presses upon my eyes, I battle. It is for stubborn independence's sake--one part of me against another--that I fight for my mind's control over body. In the morning, my body wins But nighttime is thoughts' playground, and thought will not be cheated its game.

Words

How many words are there in a language? Untapped recorces lay at my fingers even now, if I would attempt to express them. And yet why does it take more than the few to echo the songs of my heart, now, where more articulation would fail me? Few words rightly hold the meanings they govern when used losely on the tongues of many.

So perhaps words are not the answer, but a deeper knowing and understanding within one's self which even words cannot tap or express without ruining and cheapening for meaning.

How else to communicate that knowing if not with words? Perhaps that, too, is in knowing.