Dear You.....

Dear You,

tell me what it is you see, and I will tell you about a dream

tell me what is it you hear, and I will teach you how to sing

tell me what it is you want, and I will walk you along the way

tell me what it is you have, and i will help you give it all away

tell me what it is you crave, and I will hide it from your sight

tell me what it is you dream, when you close you eyes at night

all these things you tell me, they mean nothing to me at all

i am only here because of you, you have to take control

I am nothing more than space, I exist only to refine

It's me.....I am your imagination, and I am beginning to lose my mind

You have to give me something, you have to take a chance

because I wont be here forever, I have to take a stance

Wake up

Open up

Give up

or Live up

to

Something.

Anything.

Love,

You

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I think the battle I have with myself sometimes becomes overly extensive. And I wonder what part of me it is that I am battling. So I had this thought when I sat down to write this. I thought maybe my imagination is trying to speak to me. He has a lot to say, and sometimes I have a hard time picking up on his subtle hints. I constantly battle with these spaces that exist in between, and that's where these words came from.

The perspective of our imaginations' giving us feedback. The determination and push from a first person view. I wrote myself a letter.......from myself. And hoped that maybe I'd be more willing to give into my own inner thoughts. We will see where that takes me.

Our Own Realities.

I think that in life we choose our realities. 

We paint them. 

We color them. 

We dream them. 

We create them.

We are either designers or copies.

Sometimes obstacles appear in front of us that make decisions difficult.
 We decide to take certain risks for certain rewards.
Sometimes we turn our backs on some risks.
Sometime we lose out on certain rewards.
 It isn't these decisions that define who we are as creators.
But it is the decisions we don't make.
It is the control of our own realities that we give away.

We either take control or we let others lead us. 

I think in my past I was caught up in expectations. Actually, I know I was caught up in expectations. I chose classes, I chose to abide by graded scales that inherently told me how clever or dull I was. I chose after school activities that  were supposed to define me, and help me achieve what it was we were all expected to achieve....greatness.

It was the colors, the lines, the brands that were pushed into my mind and persuaded me that they would make me more appealing and attractive physically or mentally.  But something was always missing. The light wasn't there,  the colors were muted, my voice was turned down, my sight was narrow. I was a lesser version of who I was meant to be. I was letting a system design my output, I was letting an organization define my title, I was letting teams place rules on my overall thinking. I was gliding by on a calculated scale, unseen and unheard.

I was caught up in living up to someone else's standards. At this point I am not even sure whose standards I was living up to. I think I was projecting my own fears onto an audience that was never there. My life had become an empty theater, and I was still terrified to walk onto the stage. There was no one there holding me back except myself. It took me most of my twenties to figure out that being center stage of your own life shouldn't be frightening, it should be enlightening.

I shouldn't be running from my future, and I shouldn't be stuck in my past. I shouldn't be hiding from the present, and be dreaming about the future. Every moment of my life is mine, and mine entirely.

Since then, I think I have finally become an individual that is comfortable in their own skin.  A person that doesn't care much about the opinions of others, in the sense that she can make her own decisions. To say others wont effect me entirely, would be a lie. There will always be people that don't understand who you are, or why you make the decisions that you do, or why you love the things that you do, or why you don't follow certain rules.  And sometimes when certain people don't understand you it will be difficult because you wish that they could. But there will always be those people in the audience that love you for your imperfections, irrationality,vibrance, and sometimes insanity. Those people will be in your life much longer than the prior.

 The moment you decide to live your own life, and the moment you decide fear is actually fun to toy with, well then thats the moment you no longer live by a graded scale.
Your life shouldnt be so understated, dont let your phantom audience keep you from performing proudly under the stage lights. Even if you are dancing to your own tune, it's yours. Sing it proudly and loudly.

To Overthink.

I think that once you blink, you lose it.
 I understand that once you interpret, you refuse it.

Once you let in, you begin to let go.

Before you really feel it, you say no.

Once you give up, you forgo.

A chance to start fresh, a chance to start clear.

You think it's by virtuous rules, you must adhere.

It's more so your internal ego, that you truly fear.

You can't give in, because you can't let go.

Of those boundaries you set so long ago.

No one else holds the keys to those gates.

Not even those imaginary guards that you had to create.

Those structures you convened.

Are even less than they seem.

They are too intangible to relate.

But you will always debate.

Because you can't give in, because you can't let go.

Of those boundaries you set to long ago.

Those impervious rules you set out with.

They were nothing but apprehensive and anxious myth.

So it's now time to realize that the maze you made.

Is your own candy land to rearrange.

I advise you, myself, to knock down the walls before its too late.

Because if you, my inner friend, keep building, you will leave no escape.

The girl who wore butterflies.

I wrote this for my Australian sister ;) whose beautiful and had a birthday yesterday. Jinti, I hope your dreams change the world. We all know the world could use a good painting over.

Love,
Your favorite hippy

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I'm not sure where the girl sleeps.
But I know that she dreams.
And what it is she sees, is much more than it seems.

Visions of grandeur, places of past, people of presence, and monsters without mask.

Nothing to run from, everything free. A different life behind the darkness, where you can just be.

Intense is the sight, of a dreamer in flight.
Nothing but eyelid, no cornea of white.

For a few hours in each of our days, she sees the world below her in the most extraordinary way.
Physically here, mentally there.
She stays in her sleep coma, with little despair.

You see the girl who wears butterflies, Isn't destined to sit.
She dreams what she dreams, because it's just basic things we've all missed.

Nothing extra ordinary or special in her dreams, just realizations of what's supposed to be.

Intense is the sight, of a dreamer in flight. She is who she was, and is who she will be, for but a brief moment in our eternity.

So she sleeps more than most, because she dreams most of all. And she dances in between just to recall visions of grandeur, places of past, people of presence, and monsters without mask.

And she colors the world by day, and creates it by night. Because life is just better.... When your always in flight.

The girl who wore butterflies.

Unaware.

I watch people everyday walking by, riding by. Looking so uncomfortable and unsure in their own skin. They are so aware of their presence and their surroundings..... That they become completely unaware of their surroundings.


If people took single moments to actually listen or look around, things could be completely different. Instead the spend copious amounts of time staring at the ground to avoid eye contact with strangers' eyes. They walk slowly as to not upset the steamed lines in their suits and skirts. They are too busy staring at their own reflections in shop windows, to see the eyes that stare back at them. Thinking if they just walk straight, eyes down, fingers tips parallel to their body, they can cross streets undetected.

They choose less than to participate in life, and even less too living it. But they walk on calmy unsurely, unaware of the slightest.

I understand in the career driven world, we are expected to wear suits. But when was it decided that we must also wear masks. I find people trying their hardest to keep from looking me in the eye.

Conversations become mindless dribble that pours forth effortlessly from people's faces, with no true intention for depth. It's become more and more difficult to communicate with people.

I'm not sure how I am supposed to speak to people now, maybe we should start wearing post it's on our foreheads. That way when we are busy staring at the ground.... Onlookers can just read our emotional output on neon green squares.

May sometime, somewhere down the line, you could look me in the face, ask me a genuine question, actually listen and stop staring at the ground. I'm sure the day you do that..... The crick in your neck will disappear.

HOME.

I was sitting in the airport the other day. And I thought. It's been awhile since I took flight with a familiar face. I am always flying alone to some new place. Some new adventure. And I like that journey. But since when as singularity become familiarity.

It's a switch you see. You turn it on and off. Quite simple.I touch down in one place. A small place, a large place, a different place. Each time things appear to be a bit different. A bit newer. A bit inviting. The water is colder. The water is warmer. The people smile more. The people talk more. The sunrises are brighter. And the sunsets more starlit. The routines become less about routine. And less structure becomes more and more appealing.

And the place becomes a town, and the town becomes a home, and the people that are strangers by definition, become members, who become family. And family becomes familiar. And family becomes comfortable. And comfortable becomes easy. And easy becomes similar. To previous situations.

A place isn't really a place, until its a place. It doesn't exist until its felt, until its seen. And once its seen it's a bit difficult to avoid. I know lots of places. I have known many places. I have known many people.

The people, who are just people, aren't really people anymore. They are familiarity. They pull you in. Their words make you form opinions, and your opinions form thoughts, and those thoughts create threads. Those threads interconnect with other threads of words, and soon the people that were strangers pull you in.

You let yourself go. You let yourself fall. And you find yourself somewhere no different than all the other different places you have let yourself go. And you love what you see, and what you hear, and what you feel. And you love that feeling. You love that feeling of falling. Because you never let yourself fall. Because that would be to dangerous. That would be to anchoring.

And then at some point you leave. Because you always leave.That's the life of a traveler. And you miss the place, and you miss the town, and you miss the thread that you have broken. But you also miss the opportunity, and the open doors, and the inviting conversations, and the open road. You miss the new faces, and the happy ears, and the smiling eyes. And the new minds. The open minds. Because you are new. They are new. And the moment is new.

 And you can always go back. But it wont be the same. Because when faces, leave the spaces, that create towns. Towns just becomes places. And places are empty. And places are foreign. And no longer familiar. No longer comfortable. No longer easy.

So we move on.

Because places aren't really places, without the faces that have seen them. And places aren't really places without the thread between them. And when the faces fade, and the thread disappears. Then geographically its just a place, and mentally your just left with whats no longer there.

So you keep moving from place to place, from town to town, from unwound threads to more unwound threads. And you create towns, and your create spaces, and you remember faces.

And you always search for the familiarity. And when you don't find it, you create it. But it's always hard to switch. It's always hard to turn it off and on. Because unlike places, we are not just spaces.

I think I miss all the places I have seen. I miss all the spaces I helped create. I miss all the faces. I miss the colors, the smells, the sounds, the threads and the towns I created. Because now that I have left, they have all just become stories. Stories in my head. I appreciate the present for the sake of my curiosity, and familiarity. But I appreciate the past for its short stature, and it's novelty, and its crispness. Days are no longer than before, and years are flying by.

 I do not have time to create all the towns I want to. I do not have time to meet every person in the world. I do not have time to read my favorite book in 46 languages. And I don't have time to write every book I have written. I wont have the perfect conversation. And I won't climb every mountain. I won't ski every run. I won't surf every wave.

There is very little time to create something new. And there is very little time to study the old. I want to do too much, and I do too little. And I want to learn too much, and I learn too little. I want to see it all, but I see just some.

It's a curse to be a thinker. Because when you think, you remember. When you remember you know. When you know, you can't hide. My past lies in my dreams, and my dreams become more and more vivid with each new landscape my eyes search through. They become more vivid with each new face I study. They become more vivid with each object I touch. They become more vivid with each story I hear, and each voice I take in.

At some point, there has to be a pause.

Words.

I lose them sometimes, you see.

Sometimes I'm left with them fleeting me.

At times I'm not sure the even exist.

If they are things, or ideas, or concepts without lips.

Because they aren't individual, they are subjective

And because they are read, and not spoken.

Because they are interpreted,and not thought.

The meanings behind them, the sounds between them,

The silence in the pauses.

The punctuation of reality.

The punctuation of non-fiction.

The creation through them, and the relation to my own.

Make them surreal.

Make them unique.

Make them confusing.

Make them perplex.

One million and more of them, one million and more minds.

No one sees them differently, noone sees them the same.

One strand of them causing infinite possible interpretations.

A mixture of them causing ethereal mutation.

Words..... More powerful each time they are seen.

More known, more effective, more destructive, more translucent, more opaque.

A life without words is a powerless one, a mind without thoughts is shallow....- and a story with no words.... Is no story at all.