Flow can be described as a steady pace, trickling of events and even dialogue carried on concurrently. Re-Emergence of patience carried through my soul as I began this week. It ”flowed” the way it has before, but unlike before I rose to the occasion with a lighter tone. After recognizing the signs and orchestrating a mini brain break, I found myself flowing at an even keel. Reflection of thee
Mirrored tapestry chained
Why though is it he?
A tiny poem I wrote a month or so has really been a sticking point for me. As I come to grasp all that is happening around me with I as the Center. Growth? Potentially. Or is this challenging course of situations meant to be a lesson of even deeper meaning?? Again potentially!
Same ‘Color’s’ as previously mentioned danced around me mind as though trapiedests were practicing siloquettes. I have noticed something that has begun to take shape in me. That is the need to create without using fictional scenarios, for I have this vast view that could be shared in a meaningful way. Such as this blog, my journey through years in the making. This self awareness and love of esteem essential guide to simply well-being!
As I incorporated the rest into my aura. I chose to lighten my heart pull towards the outcomes or potential outcomes of the people from ‘Color’s’ They still are ever pressing, yet I continue on. As do they. Venturing to the next set of uneasy yet inspiring interviews I don’t reckon any #normal 9-5 would have. Though I’d love to use Color’s again to translate the events, I will not. Instead I will use the prop that seemingly sang to all involved during said interviews this week.
I kid you not a guitar became the focal point in these random stories, and it was oh so painfully sad! As the strings were pricked by their touch, a touch individually callused with shame pain and disdain; the idea of self channeling the soulful meaning came into song.
“ I want to be anywhere but here.
I want to be with anyone, but me. I’d rather be beside, below or above me Behind or ahead of ….me. Just not with me!
I want to be with the drunk me, the high me, the stoned me. I want to be with somebody other than me! I pray to be with me.
I want to be with somebody other than me. I don’t want to be in ….. the moment of me. I want to be with the real me. At this moment……I want to be with the NOT me” By. Monty W.
Within five minutes of interviewing my gut punched my lung as I grasped for the unmirky air in the room As a man we shall call Vinny described in detail his bodily fluids while being forced to use methamphetamines. His stare pierced through the soul as he vividly went through childhood traumas of sexual deviancy’s. Adult abuse and all around trauma of the sexual nature.
He strung the cords lightly while explaining the beast of his nature and god given right to breed women and not be bread by ’faggots’. Tusk the second interview of the day started off with crimes of misadventures as he gracefully described his daughters overdose and eventual death. How his world stopped flowing when she thought she could try cocaine and in all actuality it was fentanyl. she dropped dead instantly. Tusk’ world began to crumble from there seven years ago. His story he asked to be shared, he wants people to know and also that he’s there. Suicidal ideation crept over and continued to plague his world, as he gave up on life’s little rewards such as house and home. He was cheated on by his wife and so he took his guitar and left. Tusk buskin and his guitar. Think of it as a man and his dog on the road his one true great. Tusk had the opportunity five years after his daughters death to be re-aquainted with his son and new grandchildren. He was going to teach his son guitar and get one for his little boy too. They got in a small argument ( from what I recall) and he watched his son walk away that day. Tusk went out and got the guitars, one for his son and his son. Little did he know that while he purchased the Instruments his son continued to numb with substance. His son died that day. Never to be gifted the art of song through cord, but rather become the third act of a score preluding to an eventual final act of suicide by copper! Tusk placed himself in front of the police and through a fit of rage sometime after that destroying his Guitar. The cold heart song of tragedy Tusk could no longer sing. Destroyed we’re two of his children, his dreams his world so art though be the best friend he’d always had.
The strings lay bare. The wooden skull splintered by rage. A chord forgotten in time.
Tusk did not die by suicide by copper. Yet found himself sitting across from me as I chatted with him about life. I still hadn’t caught wind of clean air. I then sprung from shock composure and with a ray of epiphany I broke into familiar song for this room!
As I mentioned with ’Craig’ ( be sure to read that thread) the room captures this idea of sanity. The poem above defines what is addicts do not know of sanity. The NOT me. Oh how I wanted to be with not me as well. I explained to Tusk and to Vinny who are we before all this? How amazing this is, that in this moment we are attempting to define who we used to be all while trying to manage the flow of existence in the fucking RIGHT NOW!
Eyes widened, passion for the pure compassion was present. I felt Tusk’ ideology and sensed he needed to explain to an elder this out of body experience yet in body frame of mind of why can’t I just fuckin die already? What does this all mean, who am i and why did me breaking that guitar result in unfinished suicide by copper? Vinny paused and a tear rolls down his pale lifeless skin as he realizes he needs to explain that he isnt lying and only speaks the truth. Melted metal crumpling in the sky cascading down to the earth is what he heard in that silence. The tear falls from chin to guitar, as he once again states he isn’t lying… sir.
Patience still hovering. The ballad of the nutcracker classic begins to remind me that there is play in storytelling. The flow of my week will not ever be one to paper perfect, but rather flowing dialogue of despair and aches of heart strings on a guitar. Even I at times do not wish to be in a moment….. the moment of .. me.