I write to reveal myself to myself.
I also meditate.
Both writing and meditation follow the flow of the currents underpinning my sense of self. One tries to build dams, the other attempts, at first, to re-channel and then to drain until dry. The spaces that remain are rendered luminous by the shoeless one entering the temple.
But I digress; back to the dams.
Dams serve different purposes. The collected water consists of thoughts and feelings. To swim within these depths is to be coloured by their presence. To follow a thought is to learn of its beauties and horrors. To get within and to let within these entities is to simultaneously find and create oneself.
I can write. I can navigate the pools and the channels that convey words back and forth inside my mind. Each moment at the keys means choice. If this then that. If that then the other. Some words come alone and some in groups. There are short trains. There are concatenated carriages making up locomotives that ride on rails straight or sinuous. And then there are orphan thoughts that should succumb to the shears; but who could cut the blossom? So they stay. Inappropriate and lost.
And others promote, provoke, invoke followers that gather round like shiny-eyed cult members.
I organise my words. I corral and caress them. I let them whisper their meanings to me.
Then, when they’ve (they’re?) done with me I feel a release. A felled forest. Levelled land. Easier navigation from there to me. Will they spot the rhyme with a to b?‘ whispers a voice, and I wonder at that sound. Who speaks to me so? And another part of me realises that when I begin to joke, my point has been made and it’s time to stop.