Who Am I Really?
Underneath the desire to be heard, to be understood, that's where reality lies...
I wrote this directly into Substack, which doesn’t automatically capitalize the first letter of each sentence. Fuck going back and changing each letter… it reads the same, it means the same thing.
This piece was lightly edited… I typically edit my pieces so they are super easy to read I guess… but really who gives a damn at this point haha please enjoy my experimentation with a more true representation of how my pen scratches the page and how i scratch my itch to… be human I guess.
Stop trying to understand, stop trying to be understood… stop trying to breathe. stop writing for the eyes of others, reading for the minds of others as if some test follows… what am i doing? this obsession with knowledge obscures my spirit, it weakens my words, it makes me unable to excavate the impossible depths of my heart. it serves as a buffer, one I’ve been working on, making thinner and thinner as time passes. i occasionally break through, no longer slave to the intellect that asks “ How does this sound? Does this make sense? Is this clear?” These questions that stymie the flow of my spirit into the physical world, instead being filtered through this warden we call knowledge, which arrests the heart’s progress, anchoring it to the opinion of others.
I crave to be heard, because no one would listen ,and i never believed my hearing was enough. what is a performance without an audience? yet, to perform, an audience is not required.
how long I’ve been lied to , how long I’ve lied to myself. clipped my own wings and changed my stripes, desperate to be part of the herd so i could feel loved. Feel comforted, feel accepted, feel the warmth of other bodies being close to mine, given the world’s temperature matches the cold hearted knowledge humans are desperate to build it on. The frigid feeling of fear humans build their relationships around.
but without these things happening internally, even when or if those things were given by others (to the best of their abilities) it would never be enough. i would never be satisfied. if i could not hear myself, it does not matter how loud or softly i spoke, it would not matter… i would always feel my pleas, my desperation, would simply fall on deaf ears.
a desperation to be heard, but no conviction towards releasing sounds unique to me, to who i am, to what feels most correct, most true to my core, most authentic to who i really am. no, the message, the music, the musings, always altered to receive that which i have always felt denied, patience, acceptance, acknowledgement, understanding, and ultimately, love.
how can i feel you love me when you refuse to listen? when you call me smart, yet abuse me? when you don’t talk, speak, listen to me? is it any wonder i stopped believing my truth, my authentic self, was worth listening to? i muddied it with the ways of the world, trying to clarify it for others, to be more easily acceptable, to be more easily understood, to be more lovable… and ended up moving further away from self love and self knowledge in the process.
even now my left brain tingles. i almost said assaults me, but that felt dramatic. but even now, it seeks to stop me, to arrest my momentum, to break my flow with mundane thoughts, that disrespectful knowledge that cages. thoughts of others understanding, how I’m holding my pen, how I’m breathing, how the words look on the page… how i long to let go of all this! this utter nonsense! how i crave for all this knowledge to move into the background where it belongs, and for my spirit to take the lead. the knowledge cannot be erased but will find its proper place and achieve its proper weight, rather than weighing me down.
Isn’t this upside down pyramid/ triangle of marketing desperation just adorable lmao