I haven’t written in ages. That feels like a sentence I’ve been beginning my short rants with often lately. I feel as if my artistic expression has left me. Whenever I try to create something, words, paintings, drawings, sounds, it all feels so forced. When I think about it, look inside to figure out what it is that I want to express, it all vanishes away in an instant and theres nothing. All I find is a big emptiness just teasing me. Just now, it happened again. This is all I can write about. Have I created walls that massive? Am I that disconnected. I have felt myself put up walls, but why? To satisfy the hunger for home and familiarness? To distract my senses from footsteps that follow and hands that grab? To build patience to the intolerable guard that I only sometimes become aware exists? What is this difference with the way I interact with people back home and people here? It really is everyone. Is it the length of time I’ve known them? I am constantly forced into fooling myself that I am not actualized, that I have so much more growth to climb through, but the thing is, I feel very much at peace with who I am. yes I have things I need to work on, but everybody has things they need to work on. It doesn’t mean they’re flaws. And it does not mean at all that I’m not self-actualized just because i’m working on my comfort with the dark and with strangers. You know what, I’m proud of myself. I think I’m doing really well for what I’ve gone through. I am not a victim and I do not need help. I would like advice, and opinions but only because I want to seek them out. I do not NEED to get fixed like a broken doll. We create massive boxes that keep us trapped inside our own states of mind. Needing help, being a victim, is this box. I do not need to be fixed and I do not need to be told, yes this comes off childish and almost as evidence that I need help - denial. But this is not my point, I’m not refusing help, I’m not saying that I should pretend that I haven’t gone through something traumatizing. I’m only saying that I don’t need anything, I want something. I am not a victim.
There is something missing, but I’m not sad. I’m loving my travels yet hating my journeys for they are almost none existent but so damn persistent.
really missing these days.
how complicated but how simple, so simple things were.
music, poetry, alcohol and happiness.
I miss these days.
missing summer, missing the east coast, missing all of you.
Waiting for the sunny days and dear old steezy.
I could write forever now a days. So many juices leaking through my brain between my heart and my fingertips. I feel this marvelous flow again, though not by good cause, but I feel it, I do. The marvelous flow of creation and outwards explosion. I missed writing, how I missed to move my fingertips and curl into a smile as my brain sped faster and faster with more and more to throw onto the screen. As my eyes stare inexplicably at a screen that doesn’t move, matching the eyelashes that remain still. How I missed this feeling, too bad it’s from such trauma. But I guess I feel again, I feel it.
I’m caught between waves of emotion roaring up as I remember my good, and crashing down as I feel my weakness. I must write about child soldiers now, and the critical security understanding of our responsibility to protect. But how can we protect something that we don’t understand? How can we protect something when we don’t know what that culture’s definition of protection is? It amazes me how ethnocentric our culture really is. Though we think we are doing good by saving these children’s innocence and raising them how they should be raised, politically un-involved and absent minded. Who knows? Though I’m a pacifist, I can’t deny that this custom of child soldiers has its own identity. It forms its own positives for its people, positives very real to them, and if this culture believes in those positives, if these children believe in this lifestyle, who are we to say they’re wrong? We don’t agree, and we see this as child abuse, but that by no means gives us the arrogant right to believe that we are right and they are wrong, that they must conform to our way of life. Over-crowding prisons and corruptive greed.
Boy, are we right.
