A glitch in the matrix
What is it that you feel called to do? Dance? Sing? Scream? Cry out?
Does it feel like everyday is just the same over and over and over again and you’re ready for a break, something new, something else. A glitch in the matrix or a way to just stop smashing your fucking head into the wall so many times, over and over and over and over again. It’s fucking exhausting always doing this, over and over and over again. Playing these games of cat and mouse and the ones of entrapment. I am a kind person, I know it to my core, yet why do I sometimes scream out and wish for destruction, for chaos and for the flood gates to open? Why is there such a strong urge and craving and yearning for all things to topple over and change? Right as it’s starting to get good, why do I yearn for it all to fall upside down on its head?
I watched my history and I held my breath. Twisted out of place and then formed back into something new, something of light, something of love. I gave too much of myself away, too much space to someone who just wanted to fill it with noise and envy and greed. For they had too much within and needed so desperately to pour it out into someone, anything else. Maybe this is what I do here now, as I sit and I write. Pour it out into something new.
When you write poetry or a song or a new story, where do you get the goods from? Where do you get all of it, all of it without condition or restraint? It’s somewhere from inside, the depths of the soul, yet it’s harder to access when rage and anger and changing hormones of a new cycle cloud the vision. And as an alternative, I propose, what if this is from the depths of the soul, yet simply in a different lens, in a different shape. I used you as material to build my best life, a way to see a mirror in which I did not like the reflection and I said, okay, I love you, I see you, and I will choose a different way, I will choose a different path, I will choose the one that benefits and uplifts and serenades us all. I will give birth to the real me, the true me, a new me, to you, I will. Though my legs get eaten by bugs and I swat them away, a blood streak left in its work. There’s always choice and there’s always a decision. To rage, to anger, or to listen and to develop an understanding.
