I watched the Nina Simone documentary yesterday and I have never felt more reflected. She is the most beautiful woman. Her rawness and vulnerable ways I admire. I feel myself. Pieces of myself I don’t recognize. I see that it’s okay to embrace the darkness. I’ve been living in a fantasy. Paired with the article I read about how unhealthy it can be to live a life in which one strives for positive thinking while ignoring and not accepting negative emotions. I need that rawness, but I’m scared I’ll go back to that dark sad space. So I bury that emotion and pretend to be positive. I’m finding all these emotions blowing up in my face. I need to learn that it’s okay to be sad, mad, and even angry. And to feel it. Feel it all. I need to feel it. Maybe that’s my lesson, to be honest about the way I feel.
I feel I’ve lied to myself in a sense. Using phrases like “everything happens for a reason” and “wabi Sabi” and Buddhist philosophy to transform my thoughts. Although wise; in my case, I find myself on auto pilot on the other side of the spectrum, lying about how I truly feel, coping with addictions. I think I’m ready to embrace ALL of my feelings. Come out the dark side, Mama wants to play. I want to get to know my dark side.
Unmoving
I remember sitting down in an empty space
Unmoving on a cloud
I saw my future there
Declared it aloud
Finding my name is claiming myself
January 15, 2023
I love deep feelings. Feelings that stops you in your tracks. Experiencing feelings with self awareness is even more enticing. I can do this dance and really put my foot in it. Really break a sweat. With the wisdoms of the future as a tether. Although the idea of becoming the crazy lady who wears mumus, cheetah print thongs, reads tea and palms and can tell when you’re lying but makes a game of playing along, is mad enticing.
Digest

Knowing

Iridescent flesh
Oh iridescent flesh
what reveal you of me
oh moon eyes you never cast a blink
so nodding
accepting
the picture so loving
the picture of bristle fingertips
how high will you go to count
those of others those of mother’s
Oh patches of wild
you may never be read but all passes
all too soon starts anew


