There is a way in which I keep myself apart.

Completely discontent, unable to open myself. Unable to even muster the desire to open myself socially. Introverted and unsocial.

Am I introverted, a way of being as valid as others? Or am I hiding behind shyness and insecurity, unwilling to face my true potential?

Whatever the case, tomorrow I will take some time for myself.

Waves

A man stands strong against the tide. The crash of the waves resound, the heartbeat of the world. Each particle of the water held to those around it by strong attraction. The man sees the truth in the waves. Each particle of water safe and comfortable, supported and surrounded by those of its own kind. Each wave pushing the limits, tasting the air, caressing the ground, touching the man in ecstatic, orgasmic flow. Each particle of water strains for freedom on a bed of its peers. Each particle of water gets a little further and subsides back into the whole.

The man has been standing in the waves for a number of hours. He speaks, "I am searching for the truth, my truth. Please, can you tell me what it is?"

The greatest joy is that the water speaks back. The greatest sorrow that the man cannot hear it.

Sovereign

I have been crowned a king.

Heart-bag

Everything that I am is changing.

Atoms buzz and twitch and vibrate and disappear and reappear with such alarming frequency that it is a miracle that any sense of continuity exists at all.

My mind is, in each moment, being reborn.

Like a plastic bag floating in a strong wind only to get caught and snagged on bush or fence, my heart drifts along a current of time. It reaches out, gets snagged, and there is a part of it that cries, "Stay, stay! It is safe here, it is comfortable, it is known! Stay, stay!" But the wind is inexorable. And whether the plastic bag that is my heart desires it or no, it will get torn loose: with a new rip in the surface, a new scar where it tried to hold on.

Maybe death is nothing more than a heart-bag too ripped up to be carried any further.