Truly, I don’t think
We are ever completely
By Daphne Shadows
What is invisible?
You can’t touch love or misery.
You can see your lover’s eyes light up when you come home. You can see the suffering in a child’s eyes when they huddle in the shadows in the streets.
So, yes, you can see love and misery.
So again, what’s invisible?
You can see that too.
Can you see truth?
You can see when someone’s lying…
So doesn’t it follow that you can see when someone is telling the truth?
I think so, yes.
What about ghosts?
If we’re going with the ghost theory, then for that theory to exist, that means we believe ghosts are real. Then that means we believe the spirit of a person exists, which, if you were another dead person (spirit) you could see other dead people.
Nope. Not invisible.
What is there that science cannot quantify, cannot see on a screen once it’s MRIed it, CAT scanned it, or otherwise broken down and visible under a microscope?
What is there that we cannot, as people, see?
Yes, you can see emotion.
Yes, you can see ideals.
I mean, technically, at least. At the end of it all, you can see these things.
We can’t see gravity but we can see it work. We know it is gravity. It’s visible.
What is left?
What is invisible?
I thought I had it with this one.
Okay, so actually this one wasn’t my idea. But regardless.
This doesn’t work either.
We can see time passing.
We see the effects of time.
Nothing is invisible.
Not even our secrets.
This is post #4 in Rara’s #Somethingist challenge. For my original post (which explains things), click here. And then join the challenge!
My dog’s big brown eyes staring up at me as I tell him I love him.
Truth is getting lost in a song I can feel.
Stories are true.
Stories are truth even if they’re wrapped up in some lies.
Make believe. Fairy tales for the soul. Grotesque and painful but beautiful and pure. Painful dredges through the muck so you can build a home and lay on the living room floor like a child again, safe, comfortable, content, and happy to just be there.
Truth is the stories we tell.
The stories we get lost in. The stories we survive inside.
The ones that break us. The ones that build us.
The ones that allow us to find the ugliness behind the bright lights. The beauty in the deepest holes filled with the heaviest atmosphere.
Truth is getting lost and finding yourself.
Truth is truth.
It can be hidden, denied, disguised, discarded.
But truth can never be broken.
This is post #3 in Rara’s #Somethingist challenge. For my original post (which explains things), click here. And then join the challenge!
Do you ever get stuck?
Come up against wall after wall, again and again and again. Until you finally just say screw it?
Do you ever wonder why you’re holding so tightly? Then wonder what it is exactly that you’re holding to?
Do you ever just get tired?
Tired of all the petty, childish, selfish drama of others.
Tired of the same no good, same.
Tired of the pain.
Of the knowing and the incapability to do anything about it.
The correspondence between misery and choice is breath to my lungs.
But I’m still not breathing.
Sometimes the silence is the only thing that keeps me alive.
What do I have but this noise masquerading as life?
What do I have more than a truth I can do nothing about?
What is there but this sadness?
What is there but this madness?
How do I crawl out of the abyss when all I’ve ever known is to suffer? To flounder in the denial.
HONESTLY, I wouldn’t wash my hair if I didn’t have to. It’s so annoying, hair gets all over, I have to wait eight millennia’s for it to dry, and brush it out at just the right time or it sheds more hair all over and drives me insane. But, if I don’t wash it I begin to look like I could squeegee my hair out and oil your truck… so I figure it’d be a good idea to wash it. Plus, I look less naked-mole-rat and more human when it’s clean. But Jeeze! I’d love it if hair just stayed clean.
I absolutely love waking up sore from a good work out. Absolutely love it. So then, of course you see me walking around all weird-like, stretching limbs out in odd places, stretching my back, arching my back, leaning forward, stretching my legs out to the side…. Randomly. Because it feels good.
Because that doesn’t totally look strange.
“Forgiveness doesn’t make the other person right, it just makes me free.” Anonymous
I love going to therapy! That probably makes me sound like more of a crazy person than I am, but it’s so true. If I could joyfully yell it from a hilltop, head thrown back, arms stretched skyward, I would. Except, then people would probably wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have left therapy, and I don’t want people thinking I’m a different kind of crazy than I am.
But yeah. I love therapy. I don’t want to stab people as often. 😉
Humans are so impressionable. No wonder it’s so easy for the monsters to win us over, to get us, to sneak up and slip into our skin or rip it open.
But humans are the monsters.
Exactly. There’s one in all of us. And we let it take over without much of a fight, now don’t we?
HONESTLY, the truth of the matter is really quite funny.
It’s the reality so many don’t want to accept. Don’t want to see. We They don’t want it to be real as they cling to their chains and shriek out the pain, woe is me, where is the answer? as they hug the cold metal harder.
There are no rules.
Where does this puritanical urge come from to believe I must be miserable, suffering, in pain – or I must be doing something wrong? If I’m not in agony, I’m not a good person, I’m not fighting the good fight. If I don’t burn with the angst of never-to-triumph fire, I must not be trying.
No one is holding a gun to my head, telling me I must suffer.
No one is threatening to burn my family alive and rip my heart out while I scream and thrash in some Mayan ritual.
So why the bloody hell do I feel the need to suffer?
Life isn’t fair because everyone plays by ‘life isn’t fair’ rules.
Human choice is an underappreciated privilege.
I looooooove chocolate. Does anyone else put chocolate in the fridge or freezer before eating it? That doesn’t count for things like oreos or hohos though.
Also… I no longer like cake. And who doesn’t like cake? Well, my papa doesn’t, but he likes pie and ice cream, so it all evens out. Anyway, I don’t like cake anymore, not of any kind. Really freaking weird.
I am finally understanding that no one is perfect. No one has it all under control or is at the point where they’re like people in story books, fairytales, or movies: 100% sure of themselves and handling challenges perfectly.
No one is, by my definition, someone I agree with and want to emulate 100% of the time.
Everyone makes mistakes.
It never occurred to me. Some people, I’ve been believing, are people they’re not.
For some ridiculous reason I thought they never royally messed up or lost their cool, handled things poorly or made mistakes. I thought they were agreeable all the time and never said or did (or even thought) anything I consider judgmental or careless.
I mean, I knew they had challenges and trials – every human being does.
But I honestly thought they never made the “I screwed up” kind of mistakes.
It’s finally sinking in that everyone one of us does this. We’re all totally human and struggling to do our best (well, those of us who are trying). We’re all messing up and trying to get back up and do better.
It’s helped me see more people as beautiful and good. They’re trying. But they’re human, just like me, messing up and learning. No one has got this thing called ‘life’, down.
Since I was a child, I’ve been fascinated with rocks, crystals, gemstones. When I was a kid, I had a huge tub I kept under my bed filled with rocks I found. I couldn’t even lift it towards the end there, it was so heavy. I don’t know what ever happened to all those rocks.
“Writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers.” – Charles Bukowski
“We cannot all succeed when half of us are held back.” Malala Yousafzai
HONESTLY, I am tired of this. I do not care that you are black and I am white. I do not care that you are male and I am female. I do not care that you are Mexican, Guatemalan, Puerto Rican, Japanese, Chinese, Persian, Apache, Russian, British… and I am white. I do not care that you are twenty-nine, seventy-eight, ninety-three, twelve… and I am in my early twenties. I do not care if you have less or more money than me. I do not care if you have red hair, dyed hair, or fake hair.
I do not care.
I do not care.
I do not care.
We are all human. I believe all human lives matter.
I am sincerely tired of hearing that only one kind of life matters.
I believe we should all be fighting for each other, fighting for humane treatment of human beings, regardless of color or gender.
We are all human.
Let’s just get this straight. When I refer to ‘monsters’, I’m talking about one of two kinds of monsters.
One, bad people.
Two, creatures from stories and movies and myths which are dangerous and I absolutely love.
“I have nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” Jack Kerouac
It’s beautiful how the truth can be, isn’t it.
Pretty ugly too.
I think it’s the duality, the beauty it creates.
Depending on the paintbrush.
Depending on the canvas.
On the ‘why’.
Even as the tear drops drip,
And lips pout red,
Something grows inside,
As truth is fed.
It’s really quite simple.
But that doesn’t make it easy.
It’s really not that hard…
Once you’ve learned how to see.
I’m actually quite balanced, in reality.
It’s only once I hide the darker sides of me.
Space constricts, the soul burns.
And it turns out, it must hurt before it learns.
The rest takes over.
It amplifies don’t you see.
It stretches, laughs into the void.
As it rises, grows overtop all of me.
But the truth can’t hate it.
Not even as I drown.
Truth can only be.
Truth can only burn.
The darkness is salvageable even as is hides.
A shadow can’t survive, can’t breathe.
Not without the light in the dark.
And so I’m lost.
Swimming in absolutes and falsities.
If only I’d learn to listen.
If only I’d gather myself whole.
I’m not completely barren,
I’m not left to rot.
But the truth can’t speak.
It can only burn.
If only, if only
If only, I’d learn.
by Daphne Shadows