AS you trace the curvature of the streets, you reach the point where the curve moves and you move for the divot instead. This blog sits just as that divot, a bastion of private in the public, a place to sit outside and be in the world but far from her prying eyes. Here, you can only see. From here, you cannot possibly be seen.
I write with grand vulnerabilities, that weigh down my chin and yet I do my best to hold it up. That weight is constantly pulling and I must constantly resist and they struggle, they all struggle. In a world where the veneer is so fantastically polished, where bragging is no longer necessary as minted lives are laid out for all to see, this struggle is important. It is a way to becoming human once again, to becoming multi-dimensional, once again.
These images, these flashes of sound and light that barrage our consciousness and inspire images of our own and images of fantastical beauty and devastation and invite us to live in them but we cannot inhabit images. A three-D, slow born, slower raised, flawed, deeply deeply flawed and vulnerable being, cannot live in images.
Do we then open ourselves to a more holistic comparison, to a more thorough judgement-I don't know. Do we miss the point, then?
No, seeing people is what we do, in seeing we realise about ourselves and we becomes, ourselves and seeing people, human beings in flesh is not wrong. It is a way to love that more, it is a way to love the flaw, more, it is a way to explore more, deeper, wider, breadth.
This is vulnerability. These are my dimensions
This is the flawed mind that does not think as I want it to. That does not miss when I beg it to, that does not cry when I ask it to, that does not tick over when I need it to. This is the body that I have loved and hated and been so scared of when hair first grew, these are the eyes that I look into and some days they are far too close together and some days they are just beautiful as they need to be.
A painful jealousy and a whole love, a love that is prodded but never tested, that is reshaped but never compromised.
This head that I fight with that reproduces images and thoughts that I disagree with and I am these two thoughts at once and who knows who planted such thoughts in my head. But they grew in the fertile soil of fear and insecurity and I fear to weed them out for thoughts have been weeded out before. And they will never grow again. Warm thoughts of an innocence, thoughts of what I might possibly be --thoughts of a nascent love, a vulnerable interest that could never swim in a sea of 3D images.
I begin by allowing my struggle to move outside of me, so that I might be able to project a more whole union in this alleyway, a few turns from the main curves and we humans leap as it all rushes. The adrenaline moves from our toes to our heads and there is that second where an alternate possibility washes over our thoughts and it is there we must leap. It may and almost certainly will come again but then we are forced to wait, and weigh other decisions and our mind clouds and slows so when it comes along again, we might just miss it once more and so our mind clouds and slows and that rush rushes over until it feels like nothing but a tingle on our skin.
- Laurence, Anyways
A critical love from a compromised self. In that compromise, can we find our way back to wholeness?
I write with grand vulnerabilities, that weigh down my chin and yet I do my best to hold it up. That weight is constantly pulling and I must constantly resist and they struggle, they all struggle. In a world where the veneer is so fantastically polished, where bragging is no longer necessary as minted lives are laid out for all to see, this struggle is important. It is a way to becoming human once again, to becoming multi-dimensional, once again.
These images, these flashes of sound and light that barrage our consciousness and inspire images of our own and images of fantastical beauty and devastation and invite us to live in them but we cannot inhabit images. A three-D, slow born, slower raised, flawed, deeply deeply flawed and vulnerable being, cannot live in images.
Do we then open ourselves to a more holistic comparison, to a more thorough judgement-I don't know. Do we miss the point, then?
No, seeing people is what we do, in seeing we realise about ourselves and we becomes, ourselves and seeing people, human beings in flesh is not wrong. It is a way to love that more, it is a way to love the flaw, more, it is a way to explore more, deeper, wider, breadth.
This is vulnerability. These are my dimensions
This is the flawed mind that does not think as I want it to. That does not miss when I beg it to, that does not cry when I ask it to, that does not tick over when I need it to. This is the body that I have loved and hated and been so scared of when hair first grew, these are the eyes that I look into and some days they are far too close together and some days they are just beautiful as they need to be.
A painful jealousy and a whole love, a love that is prodded but never tested, that is reshaped but never compromised.
This head that I fight with that reproduces images and thoughts that I disagree with and I am these two thoughts at once and who knows who planted such thoughts in my head. But they grew in the fertile soil of fear and insecurity and I fear to weed them out for thoughts have been weeded out before. And they will never grow again. Warm thoughts of an innocence, thoughts of what I might possibly be --thoughts of a nascent love, a vulnerable interest that could never swim in a sea of 3D images.
I begin by allowing my struggle to move outside of me, so that I might be able to project a more whole union in this alleyway, a few turns from the main curves and we humans leap as it all rushes. The adrenaline moves from our toes to our heads and there is that second where an alternate possibility washes over our thoughts and it is there we must leap. It may and almost certainly will come again but then we are forced to wait, and weigh other decisions and our mind clouds and slows so when it comes along again, we might just miss it once more and so our mind clouds and slows and that rush rushes over until it feels like nothing but a tingle on our skin.
- Laurence, Anyways
A critical love from a compromised self. In that compromise, can we find our way back to wholeness?
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