A lot has happened recently, and none of it involves me spending much time writing or blogging as of late. Hopefully I will be rectifying that mistake (now/soon/possibly).
I’ve had the thought that we journal everything in our lives, both what we actually put down, and the things we don’t put directly onto paper but influence the next time we write. Whether next time is a conscious and intentional journal, or the next text we send a friend or a family member, the next post we make on social media, or the next meme I forward. We leave our words all around us, stretching out into the past and influencing the future.
Everyone cannot help but leave a journal that is richly detailed, deeply moving. It can even be scary to think of just how much there is of us out there, online and in our daily social, cultural, physical environments.
Anyway, I was looking through some of my (intentional) journaling and I found something I actually liked more now than when I wrote it some months back. I don’t know whether to call it a poem or just an angsty entry but I will present it here.
I feel I am floating, somewhere between the poles where one usually floats, somewhere everything and nothing matters. A place where the chill of ice water is pleasantly soft, where the tingling of my body fighting for warmth is the only warmth I’m able to feel.
But I appreciate the warmth, and I am sustained from it.
I can be held in a translucent blossom of painful warmth where the frigid cold only permeates deep enough to make my skin pale and my breath cloud.
The light that enters and presses against my eyelids is foreign. Though the cause for its strangeness is unknown. Is it the source, the sun above the water, that is alien? Is it the transformation, through the filter of my warmth and my shield, which makes it alien?
If I let it down and the light is truly alien the ice water will cover me and enter me and turn me into something lifeless and unrecognizable.
If I don’t I won’t ever know for sure.
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