So hard, so hard the first words, like the first drops of an overcast sky which release the torrent that is welled up behind them in waiting for the sign that it is time to fall. So long, so long its been since my pen has danced across the page in a jumble of conscious and unconscious imagery that has been held inside for fear of release, the making visible of all that I am too frightened to otherwise acknowledge or share. So here I sit, letting the water of my mind spring, rusty with the residue of the pipes in which it has sat stagnant for far too long, slowly start to flow again, consciously cautious not to break the leaky pipes with the full force of the pressure that has built. I wonder how many pages I must fill to see it run clear, wondering if even at its source it doesn't bubble up murky with the darkness of depths yet unexplored. This then is an expedition of sorts into the places I fear to tread, where all I wish to avoid sits waiting, plotting its escape, seeking only acknowledgment of its own existence and of its place in the whole of my being and so the world at large. The words are so small, yet contain an understanding of their own importance at levels I myself still do not. Thus I teach myself by distancing me from me. Is this then the purpose of writing? So that the universe may know itself, know me, teach me about myself? If only I can humble myself enough to accept its knowledge and wisdom what worlds could be accessed through these lines on paper, through these words and ideas that are of me and are me and are everything at once. How does one even hope to capture the experience of so great an existence inside such limited thoughtforms? Only through layers of abstractions and metaphors until it becomes clear that existence is made of these limited thoughtforms and ideas viewed not from a singular source, but from all angles, from a constantly shifting perspective I myself am to provide. But the truth, for now at least, is still murky, and necessarily so, for only that which is cloudy can be seen, while that which runs clear is all but imperceivable. And once truth becomes transparent all hope of holding it in words becomes as foolish as writing to find truth rather than joy.
