If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves.
– Pablo Neruda
We might be found, relievingly, in the silent moments between running thoughts. I am learning to notice those moments.
He looked a little dead inside
With his eyes glazed, forward
For himself. I found
Myself tilting my head as I looked
At him looking
At the air between us.
Have I fallen apart?
I wonder alone, out loud
When I see a reflection
Like a hero,
Like overcooked meat.)
Too much heat
Too many thoughts
Too many people
(I haven’t checked in
I am a squatter
In my own life
Remaining without rent
Me but hardly me
I have filled myself with others’ stories.
Stories to avoid my own.
Stories to carry,
to listen to on repeat in my own head late at night,
when I am forgetting to be writing my own.
Stories of pain
and difficulty and happiness and
memories, felt or lost or forgotten
until they are told out loud.
I have been overflowing with other selves
I absorbed, mistakenly
trying to fit them into my own concave interior,
a container to be filled and shipped
somewhere far. I yearn to lock
and steal these stories inside of me,
take them to a new place where I might bury them,
and as I dig their grave, in the soil I find
myself, waiting to be lifted out and taken home.
What is it that you despise within?
Privately in your solitude
You look for comfort in the ancient pages
Of the books made from the tree of life.
Found on your shelf
Of all shelves,
To help you
Of all selves.
Does it help
To be read by poems?
To be understood only through words
With no direct structure or argumentation.
A point made, muddled by your mouth,
As your lips form the words to comfort
Maybe love is losing
(((and I am winning?)))
yourself in others.
Here I am wondering
where I am. (Where have I gone? Where is she?)
Comfortable in my displacement
What am I doing?
I will tell you an unfinished story. (Aren’t all stories unfinished, if they are still being told?). The story is one that is common to us all. It is about the search for your true, genuine self, if such a thing even exists.
The search begins with realizing that you even need to search for yourself. It begins with trying to define yourself to yourself and to other people, and noticing a difficulty in finding the right words.
The next stage is understanding the value in having the freedom to define yourself, accompanied by a fear of tackling such a feat.
Then you need to commit to try.
After this, you continue living your life in search of yourself, always changing, always moving, always learning. Life is a continuous process of reevaluation of yourself and your ideas. Never are you complete. Never are you finished. This story is never finished as long as people have the courage to face their lack of knowledge of themselves. Learning to search for your inner self – rather than actually finding it – is the meaning of life, if there is one at all.