Strange Snippet

  I was just a little girl, four or five. I was on a neighborhood street, on a sidewalk. The street ended in a 'T' intersection, and from the left came a horse, huge and muscular, golden and brown, galloping towards us. It leaped into the air and rose up in a sharp angle—thirty, forty, fifty, eighty, feet high. It was hovering over us, and then suddenly began its dreadful descent, back towards the street at a sickening speed. We crouched behind a car, peeking around the rear bumper. The horse slammed onto the ground—the impact rolling the earth in stuttering waves—and exploded, wetly, on the pavement, bits of flesh and gore shooting out around us. 

  This came after beginning Ignite the Genius Within, a book that, as evident from the title, is supposed to help one regain their creative spark. The book is full of pictures and prompts to focus your attention on feelings, memories, perceptions. After having this dream, I began to think that the horse from the dream came from the book, as I am not prone to dreaming or thinking about horses unless I have been exposed to one. Sure enough, when I revisited the pages I had read the day before, there was a picture of a horse, running down the beach— mane whipping and waves breaking— as if coming from the left side of the scene. On the opposite page was a picture of Earth, taken from space. 

  Going through the book the first time, I had thought about how many horses there must be in the world, on that planet pictured. The prompt suggests you "find yourself" in that picture, and think about vastness, perspective. It does seem strange, uncanny, unreal, to look at the Earth image and think that somehow, I am there in that image. 

Struggling Fully for Love

  I've never done this before. I'm not sure where to begin. Yesterday, things were no less confusing, and tomorrow looks like more of the same. I'm not sure where to begin.

  Who is it for? Who is any of it for? Who deserves, who "rights" ? I feel like I don't understand anything. I feel like I can't find the words for any of it, and the words that come are more than insufficient, they are lies. 

  My heart is broken daily, and yet, I still sense that I can't properly feel. I cannot fully immerse in anything; there is always a sense of exclusion, apartness, a dullness that cannot be buffed or smoothed or shined away. Everything seems too hard to follow. But the real problem is that I am closed, and opening is somehow the most difficult of all. When I do, it is not reciprocated; when I do not, I am blamed and shunned anyway. I want More, too, but More is out of reach. 

  I can't identify myself. It's so much easier to just sit and stare and cry and feel not feeling feeling too much.

  I live with so much fear, when I want to live beyond the terror. 

  I want to feel joy, and wonder, and novelty, and anticipation. I want to feel happiness, not just the temporary fading of sorrow. I want to be, to live, and think and do and feel and love. I want a mind and a voice. But, what I have to give is so little, and to be noticed, to be loved, the world demands so much that I cannot give. I must be replenished, filled anew or at last. But so little Touches me. 

  Touch me

  Please.