“Maybe it’s the way the morning comes too soon, or the nights last too long. Or how I prefer to be left alone in crowded places. I ruin the things that matter most, and romanticize my monsters. I’m older than my age, and the only thing I trust less than my mind is my heart.
I can’t always tell the difference between opportunity, and the sound of warning. So I answer each of them, opening it wide ...and letting whatever is behind inside.
There’s something beautiful about souls disheveled, and a spirit unsure of its strength.
I’ve learned to love my wildest sides. When you can’t make sense of me, know that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be: two places at once, and alive in between.” @j.raymond
There is great imbalance expressed in the above words. Thinking about that place I recognize an American tendency that came into vogue, it seems, after the Second World War: agonizing detachment. It is a sensibility, and a way of not living to live sadly. It came across the Atlantic centuries ago to Turtle Island (now the U.S.) we First Nations peoples believed told the story of these strange white people's separation of parts from the whole.
"If these people believed," our wise one's thought, "intelligence came from the mind how would they know their hearts were separated from the intellect losing integrity, compassion, care, and empathy in the passage between the walls of the chasm left in their loss of soul?" - Dawn Wolf, Keeper of Stories 1/5/17