If I hold on to what I think . . . yet it does not embrace
me back, how strange is that? If what I think, at that moment, opens the floodgates within me, then that think has served
me well. My think should serve to embody me from where I have had no knowledge
before hand, but when this occurs, the light-up of my being is everything I have ever wanted
from think. Even and foremost as a child, this is what I wanted think to do. So
how, over time, think did began to serve a different master within me. I am
ashamed to be in its likeness and its keeper at times. It has come to favor
version over vision. And I, as a child, wanted flight not story. Think has become
a prosthesis of mine. No one seems to objectify me for it, for they are themselves, much the same.
Are we all on a cruise so massive
that railings and shorelines don’t
really exist? I think I wanted
the understanding of matrix to
mean maturity of think not just meaning of
itself. Think that lights me up is from fire within me. Why am I then so much conscientious
molten as life? Who is it of me who steals from my think to makeup this
fabric that I then live into? I don’t want a costume or a jumpsuit or proper
apparel for occasions of further submission. I want to sleep in the garden and
grow with the plants. I want the choir from soil to compel me into life like
plants do for themselves. Maybe I should be sorry to say, but I want
contentless thinking to lead me to joyless joy. I don’t always want think
wrapped in meaning. I want think before
security of knowing is the rapture. I want the think
that is the risk of every breath anew. I want the think that formulates me, not
me it. The drawnness lives in me and I am suspect that it fights with think to
give me a life. Drawnness existed in me before I had words. Much of the time, I
feel like I am a life of post-its and then more as replacements. The psychology
of me is only in traits. I want the isness through me as conscious. If I hold
what I truly think . . . that does essentially embrace me . . .
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