Here It Is

I feel ache-y, and just a tad stupid. As a fairly passionate person with a little too much inside her – too many words, too much devotion – I get carried away with how good and bad I am at handling just about anything. I don’t mean to be self-contradictory, but there it is? I guess?

Image result for head melt gifWhen I pour – like cement out of a porcelain cream cup – it’s hard to put a lid on it. I’m an either/or person, an all-or-nothing. I don’t understand going halfway, I fear mediocrity (mediocrity burns and sits at the bottom of my stomach like vodka – not very tasteful, to say the least). I reach out and I reach out and I reach out and my hand is still grasping out of a hole in the wall. I wouldn’t take it either, to be sure. Just so I’m clear. But it doesn’t stop me, in the heat of the moment. When the moment is raving and hot as the driest desert on a far off planet, my head kind of melts and I just become a scrambling mess of hands, stemming like a devil’s trap from a knot of brass, grasping for an answer. Very Dr Who, but there it is… I guess?

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And sure, we’ll never be royals, but listen, it’s not about majesty. I’m no majestic thing, I’m really just an object of passion. That passion gets the better of me sometimes. Brass boils hot and separates into all its parts, all its alchemic elements to inspect under a telescope (telescope because even though I bare my parts for everyone I seem to be irrevocably far away – far from reason, see?) just to have shoulders shrugged at me and saying “I don’t know mate, nothing much to fix but your head, but that seems to have melted.” I’m not given many other words to my ensuing question except another cursory shrug and a “maybe Walmart”, but there it is. I guess?

Who am I to decide it really. I know I dove into ice, I know I am a dove a little too trifled for greater society. I can’t help myself if I feel like something might pay off in something better than mediocrity, because I’m too much of a romantic and way to ambitious. I’m too artistic, I try to make masterpieces out of everything, everything, everything. My expectations breathe and sweat like I do. My self-contradiction plays jump rope on my back and the shrugs flap and follow me about everywhere. I know, I know. I know.

But there it is, I guess.

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E.X.P.E.R.I.E.N.C.E.

What is human experience? Has it become a competition of who can see, feel, and be more? What, then, qualifies as experience? What are we trying to attain by the end of our mayfly lives?

Do we regard travel as experience? Is there a list of landmarks in order of most important to most beautiful?

Is it pain? Is it difficulty? Is it the ability to say ‘gosh that sounds hard, but I have it harder!’?

Color, light, petals, spices, crackling laughter… dark, dust, tragedy, broken glass, broken hearts. What of these two opposite sides of a spectrum cultivates our souls and comes together in a jar of airborne telegram letters which together spell E.X.P.E.R.I.E.N.C.E.?

Learning. It is learning. Experience exists both in our mistakes and double takes. It dwells in the corners of the world and the blood-splattered walls. It passes time bathing in the light of distant lands and in the bitterness of someone else’s breakfast. We are curious,and the feast of curiosity is learning. The best meals count as experience.

We are passengers seated between shoulder blades, walking the beast we call Earth like it is still, as it too shoots through dark space on a long unending journey.We gaze at the stars and trace them into the lines of our hands, comparing the wisdom we pretend they share.

If our lives must be storybooks, we have to keep it interesting, so that we, the reader, don’t get too bored. Our story must be worth its usually abrupt ending, satisfied by its ups and downs, content with the paper-cuts it leaves.

How do we achieve this?

Experience.