I think I finally understand. Love is not a feeling with a definition, or a solid entity that you can touch. It is fluid and constantly changing and growing. Many smart and insightful people have tried to put a definition onto it but that is just not possible. It is not possible and not necessary. Love is something different for every person or creature that has experienced it. In some cases, it is learned and gathered over time until it explodes
Rain is my favorite. I love the smell and the feel and the sound. It is a lovely thing to sit on a screened in porch and watch and hear the dropplets or lay in the grass during a thunderstorm and watch and hear and feel the bullet-like tears pouring down the sky’s face. Rain makes everything clean. It is just like a natural restart button. It is the rain that I have been thinking of. I’d love to sleep under a plush blanket of snow or stretch out to feel the sun kissing me on a beach, but it is the rain I have been thinking of. Maybe it is a parallel with my seemingly constant tears. Maybe it is a demonstration of my unending agony. I force this upon myself, upon the spidey sense. Kill a spider and it will rain. Is it possible that all this time I haven’t noticed that I am actually dead? There are so many instances that could have easily lead to my demise. The tears come like a fervent rain day after day. Did the rain wash the spider out? I need the rain like I need to cut away the webbing. I drown the spider just like I suffocated it in the sticky webs of my heart. Out came the sun and dried up all the rain, so the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again… no I didn’t. The sun never came. The rain has not stopped. I am still trapped deep in the spout. Deep in the spout.
The brain. My brain. Usually a brain is all gruesome coils and pumping nerves and zipping synapses. Not mine. My brain is a twisted mess of detours and road blocks and explosions. It is a difficult thing to understand, the brain, and yet the mind if often the most simplest of books to read, with the deepest meanings of all.
For most of my life I prided myself on my creativity. I could always focus a jumble of thoughts into one perfect and absolute truth. I could create success from failure. Humor from anger. Focus from confusion. As Dr. Seuss would say, I “looked at life through the wrong end of the telescope.” But somewhere my mind lost that skill- just as my brain lost its functionality. It was as though I no longer understood any of my surroundings. Like I could no longer control my own thoughts and emotions and movements. For the past ten years I have only felt one thing: trapped. Trapped in a broken brain with a mind that wanders aimlessly around, forgetting how to hold on to any individual purpose. Recently, I have been noticing that my wandering mind has now become more lost in its trapped self than before. I start one project and am on to another ten minutes later with no recollection of the first task. I cannot grasp from the depths of my broken memory, names and numbers and facts that were once only laying dormant at the tip of my tongue. I don’t know how it has happened. I don’t know why those dormant facts have simply disappeared. Thus, a new feeling is slowly creeping through the detours in my cerebrum: terror. Not just fear, terror. Real, deep, crippling terror. I have managed to get through life with a shattered and disconnected brain, but a shattered and disconnected mind is not something I am yet prepared for.
I’ve been thinking of why I am starting this piece of writing. Is it because of the beautiful ebb and flow of my little sister’s writing on her blog? Or is it yet another- probably failed- attempt to try to untangle the twisted pieces of my mind? I have about seven half filled journals and in all honesty, I prefer putting pen to paper rather than tapping away on a keyboard. I love those books. The smell. The feel of the paper between my fingers. The cramp in my hand after I’ve been scribbling furiously for hours…
But there is something to be said for the ease of moving words across a screen. It is invigorating to know that I could share all of these ideas and plans and fears with the whole world with just the click of the button. But who would care? Maybe no one. Maybe everyone. I am simply a small scrape on the outer circle of humanity. A circle that is filled with art and numbers and culture and thoughts and feelings and love that I may never experience or understand. But that outer circle, that thin filament is made up of all those who are lost in their ideas and plans and fears. Those who- like me- seek recognition, or even just want to feel something. We who can disappear and reappear. We who have the strength to pursue happiness despite our many challenges but the weakness to give up and just let go. Maybe some who wander have a purpose, but all wanderers are lost.