a place to write

I just need a place to write. I need a place where I can legitimize my connection to things, the world, people. I suppose other activities exist, which help solidify this connection. I chose writing, or writing chose me.

Some activities, when deeply engaged in them, reveal the secret of invention. Kairos is a word that notes how events are gauged from the vantage point of the not-so-distant future. The occurrence of events and the actions, which set these events in motion, are incidental. Yes, we may gauge an effect in our actions upon our immediate world. The world also pushes back in its casual revealing before us. This idea is nothing new, and I'm certainly not sure why I'm rehashing it in a lighter format.

I need a place to aim. I need a place where I can focus my energies into a workable semblance of creativity. I hang my ideas on words, in their arrangement, their spoken cadence, the meaningfulness for me. What is it that may bring another to read my words are unknown to me. Even if they find intrinsic appeal, it's a foreign experience.

I generally hate me. I am always directing scorn at my appearance. So much have I done this that I wish myself invisible in social settings, by erasing my body from its own native sociality. This has the effect of mystifying my own secretions and excretions. In wishing me gone, I've come to view the parts of myself that I cannot wish away as pathologies. They confirm my fundamental lack of control.

I ache for a deep friendship. Two bodies touching, trusting one another. Yet I cannot accept my own body. This complicates relationships because my pathology spills over into a general grouchiness. I vacillate between closeness and distance. I become irritable. I burn with desire, then I burn with hate. I am a ball of tightly wound emotions. I stand alone. I walk alone. I eat alone. I remain ethical and moral in my vacuum. With nothing to test me, nothing to tease me, nothing to tempt me, nothing to please me I remain inert, a dusty relic of my flourishing humanity, my hygge, my happiness and comfort among others. I eat alone. I wash my own dishes and my own clothes. I pick up after myself alone. With no one to complain and no one to complain to I do what I please when I please. I have utter freedom and no wills to oppose, no human laws to break by living alone. I like being alone. I enjoy its confirming absence. Some embrace the oneness of it all. I embrace the none-ness.

Why construct a religion, a daily routine out of identity with the none? That would be peeling back the onion. I don't think many want to get deep with themselves or contemplate the things and the nothings they echo in song. I sit alone, not wholly understanding of my religion nor am I much of a good follower. I'd be the first to erect the laws and the first to break them. I dig deep, and still I cannot embrace the meaninglessness of life. I cannot necessarily accept the tranquility of life's maddening unraveling of my own beliefs. Over time, we lose this battle and then we die. It's a strange way of bringing the nothing into one's life. My grim reaper, my harbinger of the encroaching chaos that will envelop all of us in the end is in my harboring this fugitive called nothingness. It's the outlaw in this story, and while I feed it it pays no kind favor back. It's motives are incidental, and I better watch my step around it. It will destroy me in the end. All I can do is to lean how to avoid getting caught in its tango. It's a dance I will never win.

I'm thinking of a woman I know who is perfectly unattainable and also unavoidable. My throat is tight from anxiety, longing, and stress about her familiarity. I fear judgment. I fear the evaluative stare of others. It's character is hidden within the datum of interaction mostly cobbled into the nonverbal actions. The body once again reveals its hand in this dance between things. We are all things, and I place such undo emphasis on significance. But my poetry is just a distraction, window dressing for the real identity, the thing-ness and otherness of one another and of oneself. This thing-ness promotes an awareness of a there-ness without offering an explanation for existence. I am somewhere in a room. Shame shoots through it like a ray of light, and from this light cast upon my presence I extract meaning. I cannot explain myself. I just am, and for that alone I am ashamed.