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Jerusalem Artichoke - Helianthus tuberosus - Earth Apple - Whitecliff Park St. Louis MO US

The Unnameable I

I write when I feel stuck but have a hint for discovering more. I write most and with great depth when I sit in my aloneness and this can happen in a room full of people. I write when I don’t know my next steps. I write when I feel a lot and believe I can’t describe it. And somehow I begin to describe it with ease and without forcing it. A necessary healing to continuously experience. I write when I absolutely intend to. And when I write, am I writing to speak or writing to listen? Is it possible to identify my voice without seeking validation? It began when I was fourteen, the indescribable, what imagination could not imagine. How to say when words won’t let you? As if no means yes and yes means yes and options are limited. Freedom meant ‘I pledge allegiance to the flag’ and one nation, under God, your sons rape the sun of it’s very essence. I am to praise lord Jesus but I am confused because who are these men before my heaven? What is love if I can’t explore it? Thank goddess for the word to let me backspace, rearrange, and remember what I almost forgot. Gaslighting does that. The harm lingers like fossil fuel choking our sensibility. Numbness not by choice like the bombs we drop on people. My tears are endless and I write to extend this. I write because of uncertainty. I write because of the echoing silence around me. It doesn’t say but I can feel and I wonder what is happening inside me. I write so that I get to know myself and to enjoy myself because what is love if I don’t get to feel for myself. So I ask again and again, why? Why write this time? I write because listening is medicine. This next relationship lasted six crucial years of my life. Uncertainty was the game but at least I knew better than to forget my trusting abilities. But uncle sam isn’t playing 2 games meant for you to succeed in. In the name of survival or should I say lack of survival, I leaned on the money-making machines. They appear as 21st-century enterpernial men. Where money is good and if effort was put in then your oppression is minor in comparison. I write because of the echoing of silence around me. Is it the sound of my breath or is it the sound of nothing? And even sound is something, even when it’s whimpering or hardly echoing back. I write with my spirit. I write creatively and authentically. Seemingly out-of-place but is completely clear to me. I write in fragments and run-on sentences and there’s a complete melody. And rhythm, a natural rhythm of intimacy between my reality and the words chosen. I write knowing that writing will show me and hold me. It feels incredibly sacred, this pen and paper, this wordplay, backspace, repeat. Without time, I feel limited so is time the necessary piece? Fast forward to today and I wish to say a broken heart is barely on the plate but I’m done eating backfiring demons in the name of self-doubting hate. How I write is how I live and this way is by honoring. Inconsistent hopes and lost jewelry, what I seek can’t be held onto. It’s like grasping my shadow or capturing the echoes. How I write can feel impossible as long as it's the truth.

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