I am fascinated by texture.
. $. $. $. .
..$ . $ . $…
It’s raining again.
I am wearing my brother’s shirt; it wears like a blanket.
Rainy days are good days for coffee.
I leave it unbuttoned, but pull it criss-cross closed in front of my chest.
Coffee is the incentive for getting out of the house on a day like today. (Still yet I sit.)
I wore my brother’s shirt a lot when my tattoo was healing; it is the most comfortable shirt I have. It reminds me of him.
My nose awaits the aroma of the brew.
The pattering of the rain lulls me into alpha state.
This shirt would be wonderful to sleep in.
There are innate preferences. These should not be regarded by anyone’s influences as wrong.
Actually, let me start with this: The Myers-Briggs type indicator. The temptation to kill time utilizing an accessible and fast-paced entity paired with the inherent curiousity and/or self-absorption of the social human animal has increased the popularity of placing ourselves in square on a grid with assigned traits to compare to our friends and neighbors. The types are defined by the way in which the individual perceives, processes and interacts with the world. Once we know in which square we and our friends reside, we can say
“it makes so much more sense now…”
or “I always knew we were too diiferent (or too much the same)…”
or “we really DO understand each other’s perspective (or never will)…”
At times the inner dialogue can progress to something akin to “my way is better, and I will tell them why.” or “why doesn’t everyone think/act like me?” or “I will attempt to modify those around me to fit better within my square, so we can be there together.”
Boxes of defined perception and operation feel comfortable, like homes; we want our loved ones to be there with us. We all do not “work” the same.
Sometimes… We are built with the same materials, but we are built different ways.
Sometimes… We are built the same way but with different materials.
Remember those light psychological tests that give insight into our psyches? “You are walking through a forest…” types. Someone guides you to a scene of which you paint. The picture before you is a projection of your mind, your internal world, your hopes and dreams and fears, your expectations and your personal truths.
We went to the beach the other day. Sitting so close to Mother Ocean, hearing her lullabies roll onto the shore and call me Home again, I can’t help but be silent with reverence and turn all my eyes in, up-and-out. With my toes wiggling in warm, soft sand, I found myself wishing the beach was largely empty save for myself, my partner and a few more reverent souls. “How many people are on your beach?” Another probe into the psych which really asks “How solitary are you?”
For me? The beach, whether in my dreams, my hopes, or my mind’s eye, it is always practically empty. I am alone or in the company of one or two of my intimates. The people that are few and far between are quiet and serene. We acknowledge each other when we are within ear- or eye-shot; we nod or give spirit-bows as we pass by, usually in silence. We are monks of the shore; each footprint in the sand is a prayer and each breath or blissful sigh is an offering. That is my beach, one where Mother Ocean is free to be herself and she is loved, honored and meditated upon.
I suppose this means that I am a solitary kitty. Such has always been the way.
I sat among the people, at least half a dozen camps less than ten feet away, and I wished for space to unravel. I thought about my head-beach. With time, the population thinned greatly, and I was afforded my sanctuary by the ocean.
I awoke this morning with thoughts regarding peace and stimulation. It has loose associations with the Myers-Briggs personality boxes. Those “introverts” are often those seeking peace. They would trade stimulation for peace… as I often would. This is mirrored in many ways. In situations I am more apt to act according to what will deliver me the most peace as opposed to what will give me the most activity. Some individuals have distinct problems with this behavior when it so obviously manifests in me. It is not the same as flat-out avoidance or laziness; in fact, many times the path to peace is an active one. The activity may not be as explicit or clear to others.
Often, introverts need less stimulation than extroverts, even biologically. There are numerous hypotheses regarding behaviors and dispositions being driven by an individual’s capacity to respond (the degree of stimulation which is necessary to produce certain neurological effects). It is postulated that generally, introverts have a lower threshold for stmulation. (Pick your wording here) Meaning they are more responsive, it takes less stimulation for them to respond, they will become overwhelmed before extroverts.
Some behavior is innate. We are different. We shouldn’t be judged for our differences in perceiving and interacting with the world… but, rest assured, we will be.
I will trade stimulation for peace most days. If I can define who I am, that is part of it. Additionally, I won’t be made to feel like I should apologize for it.
I feel the pressures of this abstract force to which we attached value some time in the past with the idea of making our lives easier. Once upon a time, it was something, revered for its rarity, shininess and beauty. We pushed it. We faked it. We determined that representation of worth was more appropriate. Now we are left with abstract numbers and identities infused in synthetic polymers. Our activity is tracked as the math feels like anvils dragging the body to a premature death. I feel my face drop, my hopes knot (…naught), my optimism dissolve into the empty spaces of necessary resources. (for unnecessary lifestyles?) Logs don’t give the benefit of the doubt.
We write poetry to bleed truths.
It’s easy to cycle-in
Is an out-cycle truly a change?
The book is not the same as it once was.
Neither is my handwriting.
Now we are ErRAtic.
Now we simply let go.
Because… ? … that is what we are so often taught to do… ?
Window scrapings in the dark:
Still on the outside looking in.
Dancers I don’t know.
My muscles are held so tensely;
(pain drives people toward expression.)
Soft rolls under the tension the surface holds.
She sees better than I do in the dark. She catches small offenders that would otherwise go unnoticed.
We track progress:
like an animal for some,
like a formula for others.
I feel the focus on results; it detracts from actually living. Do… do… continue DO-ing.
(responses are sometimes merely the first thing that comes to mind in a situation- as much fabrication as they are explanation.)
Sometimes I get sick of eating.
Sometimes we act as chemical bags of need adept at hubris.
Self-interest is one of the greastest motivations for writing.
It’s coming back to me… why I spat nonsensical, colorful non-words and deconstruction. So many times words can mean nothing. We re-evaluate their status and effect as it suits us. It makes me not want to speak.
We trained ourselves to have terminal attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder.
The aether ate my face.
“Perfection” can be viewed as complete cohesion. It is not for everyone; there must be different Ways. It takes diversity to form a sustainable ecosystem.
We are born with forgetfulness. At every “clean slate” we are a stranger; we are estranged.
We must learn. Third parties want to know who you studied under.