i send my SOS to the world- this is my message in a bottle. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Words are Love I feel like for the majority of my life, I've been searching for words. The right letters, syllables, sounds, something, anything- to encompass something that I can't even define. I feel like in some ways I've been searching for some kind of story to put all these words to. Sometimes it feels like an animal that I can't control, a being that rests and lives beneath my skin. Sometimes minute breaks in the water raise forth like a silver fin that cuts through the deep, sometimes it remains completely submerged. It's almost like last week, the immutable black presence that occasionally surfaced of the coast in Half Moon Bay, some undefinable that could be a whale, that broke the water with a graceful force. Or maybe it's the visual image of a movie I saw this evening, Whale Rider. Her hands clasped the rough, rocky grey of the whale's back while the water swirled around her with an untameable rushing. A baptism of sorts- a birth and a death all within the same withheld inhalation. I wish I could find the right way to say all the things that spill forth within my mind, some completely articulated way to express the simplest things. The sound of the cello, the swell of my heart echoed in each dipping bow. The feel of salty ocean air across the small of my back, in the place between my winter jackets and my jeans. The touch of filtered sunlight between buildings in the Sunset. The satisfaction derived from making someone you're trying to impress, laugh. The fullness that comes from being fully engulfed in music within a small car. These little things, words to express somehow the representation of the real moment. Are words like love? Some x factor that I've been searching for with every single aching breath? I've always somehow believed that if I could find the right words, somehow, i'd be complete in a way that I know I'm not right now. That maybe, if I kept writing, the answer would tumble forth from flying fingers and whispered breaths. That the secrets would spill out of old notebooks, some pinpointed exact moment where I could say, "ah, so that's what it means." So maybe that's why I write about love so much- nostalgic for a love that I've never had, a feeling and a moment that I can only elaborate on in the muted sanctity of my imagination. Maybe I'm trying to create a home for myself- both in my writing, and in love. And maybe writing is the only tangible way to harness that place, that little undeniable truth. The only semblance of order within the chaotic confines of my skin. Maybe we are all strangers to ourselves until we are brought to light by the people around us. Maybe you know me better than I know myself. Maybe, writing is the only way I can find out who I am. Maybe I'll keep writing, keep searching for words because I'll never understand myself. Instead, I have to meet myself in my writing, every night in the darkness. It is only in that time can I come ever closer to finding out who I am. My pen is better aquainted with me than I ever will be. 3:39 a.m. - Friday, Apr. 29, 2005 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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