Freedom is a constant struggle

  All I ever wanted was a song, a poem, a dance.

  I read all the words being exchanged, and remember when it was I, and You , and we; but I'm tired, so tired—and so goddess-forsaken  slow— and need replenishment, enhancement, excitement, support. I gave You my submission for so long—waiting to hear Master's call, waiting to feel the tug and pull of His desire, for the snap and snug, for the whisper of skin and the tremor of flesh—but along the way, it did not amount. I'm busy, so busy, and yet feel that all is a waste, that accomplishment is beyond my grasp. I need such enrichment, yet feel my mind is as a hardscrabble field, and everywhere around me everyone seems to be moving and growing and knowing, filling with water, spilling passion everywhere, yet there is none that I can catch. Forsaken, for asking:


  Where is my Master?

  To Whom may my submission granted?

  Where is my Soul?

  Where is my Song?

  Where is my Dance?

  Where is my You?

  You give the frustrated brow, and and the general sweep of the hand, "it's all there, for anyone to read." And I have read, and who can I trust to sort it out, when neither You nor I know where the Truth lies hidden. Layers upon layers have I borne, and now am buried, and feel asked to throw the weight off and and spin it into a golden Understanding. My silence was my defense, and a poor one at that. It has ruined me. And now, when it is so vital to speak, to sing, I find there is no Voice but the one that cries out...There is no voice now, my tongue slips and slides in a mysterious way, and I wish, more than ever, to seal my mouth, only to speak quietly with lips. 

  Desire, it is You. Drawing near, I feel You pulsing in me, and yes, it is like a drug, first soothing the ache, then increasing the want, exciting the blood, spreading open the wings to fly, fly, fly...

  And I must keep telling myself, do not waste the opportunity, do not be so timid. I was never so bold as I was with You. Until I became Overwhelmed by You. You have seen where I come from. I was not prepared for the onslaught of Genius and Madness. Am I "the one who comes before"? Who does it badly, until another comes along and simplifies, makes art of what have struggled with for so long? But, You will say,I am being my old self, holding on to the right information in the wrong way. But, sometimes, I don't feel Real. I think it is because I cannot remember so much of my Story. I am not who I want to be, and I don't yet believe I can be. Who is my author? Is it me? Is it She? Is it He? I don't know what I believe, and that makes it very, very hard to say anything, and so I am outpaced, outdone, outshined, out. And if I do rewrite, edit, go off-script, who or what am I defying? Me, or It?How do I even know that I am living out my own choice, and not that pre-scribed for me? Loose, or bound? And will what I have lived through make be better, stronger, wiser?

  "It's not the genes that make a person, but a long, rich history of collisions, choices, audacity, courage and cowardice." All of these I have, what use are they now? Which is the illusion, and where is the magic? Is there anything that can, should, be held onto?

  "There's kudzu creeping across the Southeast, occupying environments with its singular purpose, killing off everything not itself. There's privet attacking the other parts, choking out life very fast and disrupting the food chains extremely fast by geographic standards. The two of them flood wild those places wherever humans have just given up. Wherever you see litter, you will see these two here in the South. Wherever you see all three, you are looking at a land screaming for its freedom from despair and depression." This is me. Feeling low. Wanting to be lifted, as a child, swung about in joy, and affection, and a care for the tending of the good earth that lies beneath a fallow field.