The sun is transiting through the final degrees of my 12th house, the sector of isolation, the dreamspace, the shared collective subconscious. Once a year I get to reacquaint myself with this strange void, and surrender my excess emotional material. I have psychic fatigue. I feel displaced, like I have a phantom limb in some otherworld. Like I need to locate a lost part of myself. Light has been moving differently, orbiting people and plants in a cloak of otherworldly ether. Neon purple and electric blue. It’s beautiful, but a solitary beauty- almost impossible to articulate, yet so immaculate that it begs to be shared. My world has been like that lately. Pocketed miracles with no witnesses.
I want to blast myself apart, and prang open a year's worth of wounds, unfurl the rancid twisty thoughts that have clouded my perception.
Thats what wounds are.
They are perceptive distortions.
Perceptive distortions that create. And create. Sometimes entire circumstances, people, timelines.
I want to give up on being perceived by anyone, and simultaneously I want to be told that I am beautiful.
I pin angel wings to my wall, steal flowers from neighbors and keep them in a box around my bed. Rummage through boxes of notes, dream diaries and photographs from ex’s. In my dreams I am trying to make a puzzle out of bark in a redwood forest. Running barefoot. Following hawks.
I vow to dispel grief, swear off heartache.
Become sterner, smarter, colder.
I can’t.